"I haven't see you around before," says the kid, with a winning smile that lands somewhere about three feet past and to the wide left of Danny, because Danny isn't paying attention, can't.
"Yeah," he says, distracted, "I'm new around here."
The kid's smile is wide and white and it would probably be a balm, any other day, to have this attention: like it was with Amber, young and beautiful and smart, even if she was stupid the same way this kid is, being interested in Danny. There's nothing for him here, just like there wasn't for her, and Danny's still got enough of a grip on his own mental state to think it's not all because of Steve.
That would be stupid, and he knows it. Has known it. It's not even a thing to know. It's not them. It's him. How Danny finally had to come to the conclusion that Steve was always going to get in the way, because Steve is never not going to be in some kind of trouble, and need back up, and that's Danny. That's not a question, and it hasn't been for years. He's the back up, and maybe it's slowly taken over every aspect of his life not already owned by Grace, and shouldered its way into even a few of those, but he can't look back on it now and say he'd be any better off if he'd taken that same energy, time, dedication, and put it into a romantic relationship -- one he wouldn't have time or space for, anyway.
So maybe it is because of Steve, because Steve's his partner and they're in this together, so when the kid -- who might have introduced himself, Danny's not sure -- leans in a little, making some comment about fresh off the mainland, Danny reaches to put a hand on his arm, friendly, but dismissive. "Sorry," he says, already moving past, "I just remembered, I hate scotch."
They aren't far, which means that, first, he has almost no time to come up with some kind of reason to make his way there and butt in, and, second, that he's not sure he cares, because the guy's turning to face Steve, and Danny can see the way his lapel brushes against Steve's sleeve, feels it in his own chest like a punch. How the guy's smiling. How Steve's smiling back.
And not pulling away. Like he would. Like he should, which Danny recognizes as an insane thought, which is a kind he's come to recognize quickly, because Steve has slowly but surely stripped away any resemblance of sanity Danny might once have enjoyed. It's gone, blown into bits on grenades and blinded by flashbangs and lost, adrift, on the collaborator's grin Steve will shoot his way after a good day, after a day when no one dies and they catch the bad guy and Steve maybe gets to bodily tackle someone into the water.
Gone, but it's left a ghost of itself, like the shadows left on walls after a nuclear explosion, that still whispers to him, as he comes meandering by, close enough for it to be idle, and comes to a rest near Steve's free side, shaking his half-empty glass at the bartender, because there's one thing he can always do, rely on, use:
He can complain, and he can be loud. "This," he says, to no one in particular, but aiming slightly over his shoulder at Steve, "is terrible. It's like nobody on this island has ever tasted decent booze before, how is that possible? Is the trade-off for living on an island paradise losing the use of your taste-buds, huh?"
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branchandroot
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Date: 2015-10-01 03:18 pm (UTC)"I haven't see you around before," says the kid, with a winning smile that lands somewhere about three feet past and to the wide left of Danny, because Danny isn't paying attention, can't.
"Yeah," he says, distracted, "I'm new around here."
The kid's smile is wide and white and it would probably be a balm, any other day, to have this attention: like it was with Amber, young and beautiful and smart, even if she was stupid the same way this kid is, being interested in Danny. There's nothing for him here, just like there wasn't for her, and Danny's still got enough of a grip on his own mental state to think it's not all because of Steve.
That would be stupid, and he knows it. Has known it. It's not even a thing to know. It's not them. It's him. How Danny finally had to come to the conclusion that Steve was always going to get in the way, because Steve is never not going to be in some kind of trouble, and need back up, and that's Danny. That's not a question, and it hasn't been for years. He's the back up, and maybe it's slowly taken over every aspect of his life not already owned by Grace, and shouldered its way into even a few of those, but he can't look back on it now and say he'd be any better off if he'd taken that same energy, time, dedication, and put it into a romantic relationship -- one he wouldn't have time or space for, anyway.
So maybe it is because of Steve, because Steve's his partner and they're in this together, so when the kid -- who might have introduced himself, Danny's not sure -- leans in a little, making some comment about fresh off the mainland, Danny reaches to put a hand on his arm, friendly, but dismissive. "Sorry," he says, already moving past, "I just remembered, I hate scotch."
They aren't far, which means that, first, he has almost no time to come up with some kind of reason to make his way there and butt in, and, second, that he's not sure he cares, because the guy's turning to face Steve, and Danny can see the way his lapel brushes against Steve's sleeve, feels it in his own chest like a punch. How the guy's smiling. How Steve's smiling back.
And not pulling away. Like he would. Like he should, which Danny recognizes as an insane thought, which is a kind he's come to recognize quickly, because Steve has slowly but surely stripped away any resemblance of sanity Danny might once have enjoyed. It's gone, blown into bits on grenades and blinded by flashbangs and lost, adrift, on the collaborator's grin Steve will shoot his way after a good day, after a day when no one dies and they catch the bad guy and Steve maybe gets to bodily tackle someone into the water.
Gone, but it's left a ghost of itself, like the shadows left on walls after a nuclear explosion, that still whispers to him, as he comes meandering by, close enough for it to be idle, and comes to a rest near Steve's free side, shaking his half-empty glass at the bartender, because there's one thing he can always do, rely on, use:
He can complain, and he can be loud. "This," he says, to no one in particular, but aiming slightly over his shoulder at Steve, "is terrible. It's like nobody on this island has ever tasted decent booze before, how is that possible? Is the trade-off for living on an island paradise losing the use of your taste-buds, huh?"