It's not fair. That he should be saddled with an insane person, who looks like that, and is now starting to sound like...
Like a real person. Like he's not just a tin soldier, or robot, or some anonymous someone behind layers of cement walls and DO NOT CROSS lines. Steve actually answers, and it's not mouthing off, and it's not shutting Danny down, and so Danny's looking back over before he can help himself, curious and a little cautiously compelled.
Fortunately, the black shirt is on. Which helps.
(As if that image hasn't been seared into his brain, now, as if he could unsee it, or even wants to, selfishly, somewhere behind the disgust at the universe and this bare, wary olive branch that seems to be extended between them.)
But it's not fair. Because he gets this. The way Steve's slouched in his chair, the confusion that's written clearly on his face, the mystery behind his words. He gets it, and -- worse? better? -- he's getting an invite to get it. To see it, and understand.
He does. Family is complicated. Fathers and sons, parent and child. And maybe he can't relate completely with his own father-son relationship -- they get along fine, they're buddies, sort of, without ever really talking over anything too deep or real -- but he knows what it's like to try to do the best by your kid, and know that, inevitably, you'll just screw up.
"You know, me and Grace, we like puzzles."
It's not a random statement. Not even one brushing off Steve's. It's related. It's. Well. Like holding out a beer. Offering a hand. A small gesture of peace. An offer of his own.
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It's not fair. That he should be saddled with an insane person, who looks like that, and is now starting to sound like...
Like a real person. Like he's not just a tin soldier, or robot, or some anonymous someone behind layers of cement walls and DO NOT CROSS lines. Steve actually answers, and it's not mouthing off, and it's not shutting Danny down, and so Danny's looking back over before he can help himself, curious and a little cautiously compelled.
Fortunately, the black shirt is on. Which helps.
(As if that image hasn't been seared into his brain, now, as if he could unsee it, or even wants to, selfishly, somewhere behind the disgust at the universe and this bare, wary olive branch that seems to be extended between them.)
But it's not fair. Because he gets this. The way Steve's slouched in his chair, the confusion that's written clearly on his face, the mystery behind his words. He gets it, and -- worse? better? -- he's getting an invite to get it. To see it, and understand.
He does. Family is complicated. Fathers and sons, parent and child. And maybe he can't relate completely with his own father-son relationship -- they get along fine, they're buddies, sort of, without ever really talking over anything too deep or real -- but he knows what it's like to try to do the best by your kid, and know that, inevitably, you'll just screw up.
"You know, me and Grace, we like puzzles."
It's not a random statement. Not even one brushing off Steve's. It's related. It's. Well. Like holding out a beer. Offering a hand. A small gesture of peace. An offer of his own.