He actually is listening. No. Really. Even if his eyebrows are crawling up his forehead, and his face is sliding into that nonplussed, bland expression, the warning sign everywhere of a man thinking help I am stuck in a room with a crazy person.
Because he is. He is stuck in a room with a crazy person, and that crazy person is stuck in a world where statements like direct-injected poly...whatever make sense. Not only make sense, but are spoken like they should be obvious like it's information everyone should know, and Danny isn't so much having second thoughts about all this as he is having somewhere near his thirtieth.
Or hundredth.
But it backfires, too, because it's so indelibly, offensively wrong. Steve should be able to just grieve his father like any son -- by getting his ass drunk and complaining about all the shit his old man pulled -- but instead, he's standing here in the house his father was murdered in, telling Danny about Victor Hesse's shoe size and preference, like that is a thing literally any sane person in the world would find of any importance, or interest, whatever.
Leaving Danny shaking his head with a bewildered frown pulling at his eyebrows, and resignation in his shoulders, waving it off, because this is not a conversation they, or anyone, ever, should be having. "Your, uh, brain," waving a finger at his own head, "must be a miserable place."
Already turning and leaving the conversation, because this is not a conversation he is going to have. It's not a conversation Steve should have, and, seriously, has Steve even thought about anything other than Victor Hesse at all over the last five years?
Which just sends Danny headed towards the kitchen without waiting to see if Steve is coming, because: "I need a beer."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2014-09-10 03:23 am (UTC)"Huh."
He actually is listening. No. Really. Even if his eyebrows are crawling up his forehead, and his face is sliding into that nonplussed, bland expression, the warning sign everywhere of a man thinking help I am stuck in a room with a crazy person.
Because he is. He is stuck in a room with a crazy person, and that crazy person is stuck in a world where statements like direct-injected poly...whatever make sense. Not only make sense, but are spoken like they should be obvious like it's information everyone should know, and Danny isn't so much having second thoughts about all this as he is having somewhere near his thirtieth.
Or hundredth.
But it backfires, too, because it's so indelibly, offensively wrong. Steve should be able to just grieve his father like any son -- by getting his ass drunk and complaining about all the shit his old man pulled -- but instead, he's standing here in the house his father was murdered in, telling Danny about Victor Hesse's shoe size and preference, like that is a thing literally any sane person in the world would find of any importance, or interest, whatever.
Leaving Danny shaking his head with a bewildered frown pulling at his eyebrows, and resignation in his shoulders, waving it off, because this is not a conversation they, or anyone, ever, should be having. "Your, uh, brain," waving a finger at his own head, "must be a miserable place."
Already turning and leaving the conversation, because this is not a conversation he is going to have. It's not a conversation Steve should have, and, seriously, has Steve even thought about anything other than Victor Hesse at all over the last five years?
Which just sends Danny headed towards the kitchen without waiting to see if Steve is coming, because: "I need a beer."
Hell. After today? He deserves one.