He's minding his own business, meandering down to the waterfront in exactly the way treacly vacation commercials have shown happy golden people doing while on their vacation in Hawaii -- minus the happiness, and the gold for anything that isn't beyond his control, the beach lit like a professional photo shoot. What they call the golden hour, that perfect, suffusing natural light, low flooding rays of sunshine that fall heavy as actual bars of gold, shatter over the waves like gold leaf. It's all very pretty, and soothing, and a real slice of Hawaii or whatever, like Elvis Presley might start crooning about the blue evening any second, and then McGarrett goes and shucks his shirt off with the same ease Danny uses for absolutely none of his articles of clothing, because Danny would never so much as take his shoes off in front of someone he only just met. Or had known for less than six months. Or wasn't related or married to.
He will, generously, down the line, tell himself that it's the surprise that makes words die in his throat, but that's not quite it, or even what happens: it's more like they suddenly clench into a fist and go slamming into his vocal cords before gripping his windpipe and dragging it violently back down into his lungs, where it lashes like a dying animal and chokes itself into a knot. Which must be happening, because for a second, he can't breathe. Not like, sappy, romantic, Tom-Cruise-romancing-Kelly-McGillis funny feelings in his stomach that splash up and dissolve the rest of him, but like someone snuck up behind him and wrapped his throat in a rear naked choke, and he's about to black out. It's not fun. It's not romantic. It's not a swell of music or a rush of suddenly clarified emotion.
It's like getting kicked in the stomach, because Steve is -- there's really no other word for it -- perfect. Literally. Danny can not see a single flaw -- not on his skin (suddenly bared and paler than he would have thought, painted thickly with the falling sunset light) or in the suddenly present tattoos (arms and back and he really doesn't want to know about any possible others) -- before he's steadfastly looking out at the water. Like. People do. On Hawaii. They watch the sunset over the ocean and there is nothing romantic or attractive about it and also he wonders how long it would take him to pass out if he decided to just off himself with his tie, right here and right now.
It's not like. Okay. He noticed. That Steve is a good-looking guy. That Steve is downright handsome, in a Clark Gable and Jimmy Stewart kind of way, leading-man looks and carriage. Or that he's immune. He's not. No one ever knows who their numbers will land on, so it's not like he'd never thought it could be a guy.
But this guy. This guy is sculpted. This guy is completely unfair even with his clothes on, and Danny has never felt quite so schlubby or like his shirt is so wrinkled or his five o'clock shadow is more evident. He's not so bad, but he's nowhere near Steve's league.
Which is just another hilarious joke the world's pulling on him, right?
So. Water. Sunset. People keep saying he should pay attention to those things, now that he's here, so. He does. No time like the present, right? "Yeah." Punching right back, even if it lacks heat -- more like sparring, while he steadily looks anywhere but at Steve. "When you tell me what's in the box."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2014-09-12 03:28 am (UTC)Look, he doesn't deserve this.
He's minding his own business, meandering down to the waterfront in exactly the way treacly vacation commercials have shown happy golden people doing while on their vacation in Hawaii -- minus the happiness, and the gold for anything that isn't beyond his control, the beach lit like a professional photo shoot. What they call the golden hour, that perfect, suffusing natural light, low flooding rays of sunshine that fall heavy as actual bars of gold, shatter over the waves like gold leaf. It's all very pretty, and soothing, and a real slice of Hawaii or whatever, like Elvis Presley might start crooning about the blue evening any second, and then McGarrett goes and shucks his shirt off with the same ease Danny uses for absolutely none of his articles of clothing, because Danny would never so much as take his shoes off in front of someone he only just met. Or had known for less than six months. Or wasn't related or married to.
He will, generously, down the line, tell himself that it's the surprise that makes words die in his throat, but that's not quite it, or even what happens: it's more like they suddenly clench into a fist and go slamming into his vocal cords before gripping his windpipe and dragging it violently back down into his lungs, where it lashes like a dying animal and chokes itself into a knot. Which must be happening, because for a second, he can't breathe. Not like, sappy, romantic, Tom-Cruise-romancing-Kelly-McGillis funny feelings in his stomach that splash up and dissolve the rest of him, but like someone snuck up behind him and wrapped his throat in a rear naked choke, and he's about to black out. It's not fun. It's not romantic. It's not a swell of music or a rush of suddenly clarified emotion.
It's like getting kicked in the stomach, because Steve is -- there's really no other word for it -- perfect. Literally. Danny can not see a single flaw -- not on his skin (suddenly bared and paler than he would have thought, painted thickly with the falling sunset light) or in the suddenly present tattoos (arms and back and he really doesn't want to know about any possible others) -- before he's steadfastly looking out at the water. Like. People do. On Hawaii. They watch the sunset over the ocean and there is nothing romantic or attractive about it and also he wonders how long it would take him to pass out if he decided to just off himself with his tie, right here and right now.
It's not like. Okay. He noticed. That Steve is a good-looking guy. That Steve is downright handsome, in a Clark Gable and Jimmy Stewart kind of way, leading-man looks and carriage. Or that he's immune. He's not. No one ever knows who their numbers will land on, so it's not like he'd never thought it could be a guy.
But this guy. This guy is sculpted. This guy is completely unfair even with his clothes on, and Danny has never felt quite so schlubby or like his shirt is so wrinkled or his five o'clock shadow is more evident. He's not so bad, but he's nowhere near Steve's league.
Which is just another hilarious joke the world's pulling on him, right?
So. Water. Sunset. People keep saying he should pay attention to those things, now that he's here, so. He does. No time like the present, right? "Yeah." Punching right back, even if it lacks heat -- more like sparring, while he steadily looks anywhere but at Steve. "When you tell me what's in the box."