Sharp, short and blunt. Smacking through current conversation, and making it real. Deflating any joke there with harsh reality.
It catches him in the face, runs a riot in his chest like something burning had been thrown through it, exploding the whole way, domino chain fireworks raining acid, even when he doesn't suddenly jump. His eyes flicking over to Danny finally. Now. When they shouldn't. Not now. When Danny had made it abundantly clear, in even closer words to the night, to what just happened, that he was wrong. Everyone was wrong. That Danny didn't want to be here. There. Made a mistake.
That Danny was pissed at Steve. No matter that he'd started this conversation.
Danny hadn't wanted to be the bait. He was disgusted with what he'd had to do. Sure, toss Kono at him and he's fine. Time and time, again, in a set up they've needed -- that Steve could't do, because he was too recognizable, and Chin couldn't do, because he was family, because they needed Danny and the outsider, haole, angle -- the two of them were absolutely fine with it. Soft whispers, laughing, teasing over the mic, when Steve was left listening to the friction of the mics against hands and clothes. Or blurring past him when he busted in. But not him.
He was not okay. It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't. It's been years. Steve knows better. It still feels like every single words is kicked, with frozen, metal-toed, boots, right into his center. Like Steve should have known better. Had. Let Danny laugh, along with everyone else, about how it'd be fine. He was good at his job. He could handle this. It was just undercover and the stakes were high, important, people were dying. But he hadn't known then, and he did now.
Steve can deal with feeling sick with himself, but the idea that it's a rift in their partnership. A distance Danny wants, needs, to be able to handle this cuts his throat. Sure. There's Lou. Or he could pull Kono, or Chin. They're all trained as best they can be. Best Hawaii has to offer, every single one of them. But only one person is his partner, only one of them gets him, shoves him forward, slows him down, stays right at his side, would even dare get in the way of his wrath when he's about to leave someone, good or bad but deserving, in a puddle of blood and pile of ripped apart bones, and it's the same one over there hissing he doesn't want to be the bait that has to touch Steve, has to pretend he can stomach Steve touching him, ever again.
"That's not hard," he says. Too serious, too still. He owes Danny some kind of answer, and if he can get there, with as few words as possible before he gets out of the car and into his own house, where he can hit his head on a wall repeatedly until he can pass out, since it will happen before he can make any sense of why he let any of it come out, he'll still be getting so much less than he deserves.
He can find someone else. Maybe pull Chin if this ever had to happen again. Or go by himself. Handle it himself.
It's not like he hadn't been able to get some attention. It wasn't like he wasn't trained to be able to take it all alone. It's not like they were even going to need this, again. They hadn't needed it in all these years, until this murder string.
The camaro pulled up into the driveway, and Steve left the engine running. Hands moving to his seatbelt as the click noise filled the space after his words. Any other night he'd be dragging Danny in by the scruff of his neck, insults and even winded long day comments. Asking if he wanted a beer, to watch something. Unwinding the way they did, beers and jokes, rehashing the events and not all at once, when he knew Danny didn't have Grace waiting at home or to be picked up. But Danny didn't want that, and Steve didn't either. He wanted as far away from this night, and himself, as he could get already.
no subject
Sharp, short and blunt. Smacking through current conversation, and making it real. Deflating any joke there with harsh reality.
It catches him in the face, runs a riot in his chest like something burning had been thrown through it, exploding the whole way, domino chain fireworks raining acid, even when he doesn't suddenly jump. His eyes flicking over to Danny finally. Now. When they shouldn't. Not now. When Danny had made it abundantly clear, in even closer words to the night, to what just happened, that he was wrong. Everyone was wrong. That Danny didn't want to be here. There. Made a mistake.
That Danny was pissed at Steve. No matter that he'd started this conversation.
Danny hadn't wanted to be the bait. He was disgusted with what he'd had to do. Sure, toss Kono at him and he's fine. Time and time, again, in a set up they've needed -- that Steve could't do, because he was too recognizable, and Chin couldn't do, because he was family, because they needed Danny and the outsider, haole, angle -- the two of them were absolutely fine with it. Soft whispers, laughing, teasing over the mic, when Steve was left listening to the friction of the mics against hands and clothes. Or blurring past him when he busted in. But not him.
He was not okay. It shouldn't hurt. It shouldn't. It's been years. Steve knows better. It still feels like every single words is kicked, with frozen, metal-toed, boots, right into his center. Like Steve should have known better. Had. Let Danny laugh, along with everyone else, about how it'd be fine. He was good at his job. He could handle this. It was just undercover and the stakes were high, important, people were dying. But he hadn't known then, and he did now.
Steve can deal with feeling sick with himself, but the idea that it's a rift in their partnership. A distance Danny wants, needs, to be able to handle this cuts his throat. Sure. There's Lou. Or he could pull Kono, or Chin. They're all trained as best they can be. Best Hawaii has to offer, every single one of them. But only one person is his partner, only one of them gets him, shoves him forward, slows him down, stays right at his side, would even dare get in the way of his wrath when he's about to leave someone, good or bad but deserving, in a puddle of blood and pile of ripped apart bones, and it's the same one over there hissing he doesn't want to be the bait that has to touch Steve, has to pretend he can stomach Steve touching him, ever again.
"That's not hard," he says. Too serious, too still. He owes Danny some kind of answer, and if he can get there, with as few words as possible before he gets out of the car and into his own house, where he can hit his head on a wall repeatedly until he can pass out, since it will happen before he can make any sense of why he let any of it come out, he'll still be getting so much less than he deserves.
He can find someone else. Maybe pull Chin if this ever had to happen again. Or go by himself. Handle it himself.
It's not like he hadn't been able to get some attention. It wasn't like he wasn't trained to be able to take it all alone.
It's not like they were even going to need this, again. They hadn't needed it in all these years, until this murder string.
The camaro pulled up into the driveway, and Steve left the engine running. Hands moving to his seatbelt as the click noise filled the space after his words. Any other night he'd be dragging Danny in by the scruff of his neck, insults and even winded long day comments. Asking if he wanted a beer, to watch something. Unwinding the way they did, beers and jokes, rehashing the events and not all at once, when he knew Danny didn't have Grace waiting at home or to be picked up. But Danny didn't want that, and Steve didn't either. He wanted as far away from this night, and himself, as he could get already.