Steve's cheek and his mouth seemed to be caught somewhere right at the edge before cracking. In a debated war about it. Because Danny is over there being Danny. Talking about limb replacement, like it's both a normal given thing you don't presuppose about, and talking about like it isn't an endgame for a large percentage of every single military force. Especially in the kind of work he does.
Where if it doesn't kill you, and so much does, it's only second likely it's going to be something large out of you to bench you. Whether it came out of your skin or your head, no one went into this line of work expecting to walk in one piece on the other end.
Like Steve, and his kind, didn't suddenly do a count of all limbs, fingers and toes the moment you woke up from every single newest dirt nap. Especially ones that you started in the field and had you waking up to the smell of sterile bleach and those fluorescent lights that hospitals used to torture everyone. But Danny's joking, like it's nothing, and to most of the rest of the world it was, and those it wasn't, it wasn't something they talked about either.
Which makes it easy to take Danny's words, twist them toward sarcastically disappointed remonstration. "Only if you let it." Like Danny admitting to being human, and needing more than one leg to defeat an wall of insurgents was the saddest thing ever. Broken legs, plural, might slow down a SEAL. Singular it was just a reason to think outside of the box in different way than earlier.
But that conversation dwindles while Danny pulls his car into the driveway that still itches something under all of Steve's skin. Just driving into it. Like looking through water at something. The way it ripples and runs. Because it's right, and it's the exact same. How it had been for years. When he should be the one frowning the way Danny is, but he isn't. Because Danny's doing it enough for a legion, and that just makes something in Steve's shoulders tense. Push out everything. Focus.
"It's just a house, Danny." Steve said without looking at it or him, as he was opening the door and getting out in one fast, compact movement. Laptop sliding under one arms, and beers hanging in the other. The words leaving his mouth with rote of repetition no one ever heard, and Steve never missed. It's not like he's been saying it for just a day. He's been saying it for almost two decades.
And at two decades, with no left to live in it or claiming it, he can almost believe it when he looks at it.
Which is why he doesn't. Look. At it. The sharks in the water, that have nothing on the blood on the walls. When it's better to go in hot, guns blazing, that even hesitate to hesitate. Calling back, "Don't forget the box," as he was striding fast for the door, across that wide, green sprawling lawn that, like everything else around these parts, had seen better days.
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Where if it doesn't kill you, and so much does, it's only second likely it's going to be something large out of you to bench you.
Whether it came out of your skin or your head, no one went into this line of work expecting to walk in one piece on the other end.
Like Steve, and his kind, didn't suddenly do a count of all limbs, fingers and toes the moment you woke up from every single newest dirt nap. Especially ones that you started in the field and had you waking up to the smell of sterile bleach and those fluorescent lights that hospitals used to torture everyone. But Danny's joking, like it's nothing, and to most of the rest of the world it was, and those it wasn't, it wasn't something they talked about either.
Which makes it easy to take Danny's words, twist them toward sarcastically disappointed remonstration. "Only if you let it."
Like Danny admitting to being human, and needing more than one leg to defeat an wall of insurgents was the saddest thing ever.
Broken legs, plural, might slow down a SEAL. Singular it was just a reason to think outside of the box in different way than earlier.
But that conversation dwindles while Danny pulls his car into the driveway that still itches something under all of Steve's skin. Just driving into it. Like looking through water at something. The way it ripples and runs. Because it's right, and it's the exact same. How it had been for years. When he should be the one frowning the way Danny is, but he isn't. Because Danny's doing it enough for a legion, and that just makes something in Steve's shoulders tense. Push out everything. Focus.
"It's just a house, Danny." Steve said without looking at it or him, as he was opening the door and getting out in one fast, compact movement. Laptop sliding under one arms, and beers hanging in the other. The words leaving his mouth with rote of repetition no one ever heard, and Steve never missed. It's not like he's been saying it for just a day. He's been saying it for almost two decades.
And at two decades, with no left to live in it or claiming it, he can almost believe it when he looks at it.
Which is why he doesn't. Look. At it. The sharks in the water, that have nothing on the blood on the walls. When it's better to go in hot, guns blazing, that even hesitate to hesitate. Calling back, "Don't forget the box," as he was striding fast for the door, across that wide, green sprawling lawn that, like everything else around these parts, had seen better days.