No matter how much he says it isn't odd, it's odd. The door still sticks in the same place, and the place is silent, and full of early evening slanted light and shadows. It's like the place is holding it's breath. Waiting for someone to return to it. And it'll go right on waiting until it gets sold or demolished now. Just like the rest of them. It's a stupid thought, making Steve frown at himself and the wall when he's pushing through the kitchen.
Pulling the fridge door open and shoving the beer on the top shelf. Not paying any more mind to the everything that shoves in every other direction to make that space, than to how everything in these rooms feels like it's stepped right out of one of the photographs he never even had to compare it too, and yet still it was the same. Everything was the same. Twenty years, and he wasn't, but it was. Ramshackle memories playing hopscotch with his focus. Sending him right back out from the kitchen, with a look toward the door and the it's lack of Danny.
For someone who had such a hate on for Hawaii he was moving at the pace of the island.
Unless he decided he was done with this, and wasn't coming in. In which case, Steve still wanted his box.
But laptop still in hand, he headed back to the sterile setup table in the living room. Choosing it over the desk. With its prints and hints still. Or that chair that was always his fathers. The place he paid bills, and went through his papers. One hand on documents, other wrapped around a glass. But this table isn't. It's part of whatever crew did the first sweep. It's as good as place as any, and it's just as much his -- the house and the table -- as the building they just left. All under granted purview.
The rest comes in bursts. Plugging it in. Turning it on. Start working on jury rigging the connection he needed through a backdoor.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2014-09-09 02:07 am (UTC)Pulling the fridge door open and shoving the beer on the top shelf. Not paying any more mind to the everything that shoves in every other direction to make that space, than to how everything in these rooms feels like it's stepped right out of one of the photographs he never even had to compare it too, and yet still it was the same. Everything was the same. Twenty years, and he wasn't, but it was. Ramshackle memories playing hopscotch with his focus. Sending him right back out from the kitchen, with a look toward the door and the it's lack of Danny.
For someone who had such a hate on for Hawaii he was moving at the pace of the island.
Unless he decided he was done with this, and wasn't coming in. In which case, Steve still wanted his box.
But laptop still in hand, he headed back to the sterile setup table in the living room. Choosing it over the desk. With its prints and hints still. Or that chair that was always his fathers. The place he paid bills, and went through his papers. One hand on documents, other wrapped around a glass. But this table isn't. It's part of whatever crew did the first sweep. It's as good as place as any, and it's just as much his -- the house and the table -- as the building they just left. All under granted purview.
The rest comes in bursts. Plugging it in. Turning it on. Start working on jury rigging the connection he needed through a backdoor.