The silences stretches and swells in Steve's ears, his chest, the car now that he's noticed it. The silence. It being silent at all. It's not a never, but it's definitely a rarity, and it happened when Danny was in his head after something bad. When he didn't have any words. Gone were the three word sentences and the constant reminders to get in the car, replaced now with an absolutely nothingness. A nothings that slammed solid, razor ice shards into Steve's veins.
It wasn't that he couldn't do silence. He could, and do it well even. Even silence so thick it might have been screaming, while five to six other men were close as the clothes on your back, falling asleep in the most inconvenient positions still pressed to each other, at the ready for the smallest sound. He could do silence. Bear it like an extra pack on his back. It was a long ago accepted part of being a SEAL, and a leader.
But Danny doesn't. Do silent. He almost never does silent. He's loud as a sand storm happy or angry.
It's only when things go wrong, and he can't get out of inside his head, that Danny goes quite. Setting all the alarms off.
The way they are now. In Steve's head. When every ounce of what he's supposed to do -- how; make it better; drag Danny out of his dark place; insult him; goad him; distract him -- is something that makes Steve's throat close up, because he's the one who did this to Danny. He's the one Danny can't figure out how to talk to, how to even yell at. For being an asshole and taking advantage of the whole damn situation. Calling it the job. Perverting the whole idea.
Only making his hands tighten whiter on the wheel when he can't stop it. The pristine, so close, memory of Danny kissing him. Reminding him not to punch him. Hands fisted in his hair. His shirt. Keeping up with Steve the way only Danny can. Tries to. No matter who is or where he came from. Proving he can go toe to toe with Steve even from Jersey without training to take on dictators and warlords.
He's --
Breaks off, when Danny hands him three words again. Words that shrink and suck into the void of silence.
No, buddy. No insults. Nothing but those three words. More carefully put than Steve has heard Danny put anything that wasn't about Matt or Rachel. Amber, after the lies, that put Danny in the hospital with another gaping hole in his body that nearly sent Steve's blood pressure through the roof and his fury through the face of Danny's girlfriend. Three words, like an embargo. A cold war standoff offering that absolutely wasn't.
One that made it feel impossible to tell a joke. Sometime about the place. Something about the damn paperwork, that just remembering socks a fist in his stomach. Not wanting to know how Danny would describe this. Whether sexual harassment seminars or video collections would be required of them, again. Even if it was just a cover. Hawaii got twitchy about Five-0. After Lori, and then when Steve brought in Cath, who definitely wasn't just a colleague, even if they kept it above board at work.
Resigned to the role he has to choose. Because there is no other available.
Even if SEALs didn't, and he wouldn't, he doesn't deserve to hide. He did this. Fucked it to hell. Like he always told himself it would years ago. Send Danny running for the hills and never coming back.
"Yeah. You, too." He pries his own three words out of his mouth. Because Danny did good. Always did good.
The sinking black cavity of his chest, gone cold and tight for so long now. Wanting to take it back. Agreeing to this case. Laughing in Danny's face about not knowing anything. Every second seared into his brain, playing like still blistering burns on his skin every place Danny touched, every place his own hands did, too. Wanting to make a bad joke. Wanting Danny to insult him into annoyance. Wanting him to pull out his phone and call Grace, even though it's long past her bedtime.
no subject
The silences stretches and swells in Steve's ears, his chest, the car now that he's noticed it. The silence. It being silent at all. It's not a never, but it's definitely a rarity, and it happened when Danny was in his head after something bad. When he didn't have any words. Gone were the three word sentences and the constant reminders to get in the car, replaced now with an absolutely nothingness. A nothings that slammed solid, razor ice shards into Steve's veins.
It wasn't that he couldn't do silence. He could, and do it well even. Even silence so thick it might have been screaming, while five to six other men were close as the clothes on your back, falling asleep in the most inconvenient positions still pressed to each other, at the ready for the smallest sound. He could do silence. Bear it like an extra pack on his back. It was a long ago accepted part of being a SEAL, and a leader.
But Danny doesn't. Do silent. He almost never does silent. He's loud as a sand storm happy or angry.
It's only when things go wrong, and he can't get out of inside his head, that Danny goes quite. Setting all the alarms off.
The way they are now. In Steve's head. When every ounce of what he's supposed to do -- how; make it better; drag Danny out of his dark place; insult him; goad him; distract him -- is something that makes Steve's throat close up, because he's the one who did this to Danny. He's the one Danny can't figure out how to talk to, how to even yell at. For being an asshole and taking advantage of the whole damn situation. Calling it the job. Perverting the whole idea.
Only making his hands tighten whiter on the wheel when he can't stop it. The pristine, so close, memory of Danny kissing him. Reminding him not to punch him. Hands fisted in his hair. His shirt. Keeping up with Steve the way only Danny can. Tries to. No matter who is or where he came from. Proving he can go toe to toe with Steve even from Jersey without training to take on dictators and warlords.
He's --
Breaks off, when Danny hands him three words again. Words that shrink and suck into the void of silence.
No, buddy. No insults. Nothing but those three words. More carefully put than Steve has heard Danny put anything that wasn't about Matt or Rachel. Amber, after the lies, that put Danny in the hospital with another gaping hole in his body that nearly sent Steve's blood pressure through the roof and his fury through the face of Danny's girlfriend. Three words, like an embargo. A cold war standoff offering that absolutely wasn't.
One that made it feel impossible to tell a joke. Sometime about the place. Something about the damn paperwork, that just remembering socks a fist in his stomach. Not wanting to know how Danny would describe this. Whether sexual harassment seminars or video collections would be required of them, again. Even if it was just a cover. Hawaii got twitchy about Five-0. After Lori, and then when Steve brought in Cath, who definitely wasn't just a colleague, even if they kept it above board at work.
Resigned to the role he has to choose. Because there is no other available.
Even if SEALs didn't, and he wouldn't, he doesn't deserve to hide. He did this. Fucked it to hell.
Like he always told himself it would years ago. Send Danny running for the hills and never coming back.
"Yeah. You, too." He pries his own three words out of his mouth. Because Danny did good. Always did good.
The sinking black cavity of his chest, gone cold and tight for so long now. Wanting to take it back. Agreeing to this case. Laughing in Danny's face about not knowing anything. Every second seared into his brain, playing like still blistering burns on his skin every place Danny touched, every place his own hands did, too. Wanting to make a bad joke. Wanting Danny to insult him into annoyance. Wanting him to pull out his phone and call Grace, even though it's long past her bedtime.