Steve hates this face. The one where suddenly the words you've said are too big. Suffocating reasons and logic, even when they were so small, and desperate chosen. This face, he hates, and has catalogs of. Not on Cath. But other people. That's swooping drop right before reality sets in, when you go relay to a soldier's family, a cop's, a civillian's that their loved one is never returning.
And. It's. He's not dead. He's not even sure this thing, this thing with Danny, will last to the end of the month, no less the end of another week, when it's not even two weeks out the gate, and a lot of it has been spent on their toes, doing their jobs, or falling the hell right into each other, like they are going to burn each other's skin off.
Then, last night. He can't even. He didn't. He did say that, and Danny did stay. Didn't even argue or throw it back at him.
But she's staring at him in shock, and all he can think to do finally is get his hands off her shoulders. Put them somewhere at his sides. Guilt about as dense as the uncertainty of every answer flooding his head, helping his heart beat continue to pound away in his chest and his ears. Are they seriously seeing each other?
Yes?
No?
Maybe?
What does that even, seriously, look like? When no one knows. Not really. Not clearly. Neither Cath or Kono. When the last conversation they had about it was some six days ago, and ended with Steve parroting Danny's words back to him? When the closest to something he got to saying himself was none of this is a joke to me. Before the rest was Danny's words, uncertain and forever imprinted on his mind.
I don't want to go anywhere. Words so stuck in this house, where Danny is a spectre of the last week, too. Layered over years of Doris, when he's suddenly everywhere. The shouting, shoving, couch, desk, chairs. Impossible that it wasn't so loud seconds ago. When he's looking at it and back to her, and he's not sure he has any more of serious answer for Cath than he did for Danny.
He knows what he doesn't want it to be, he knows how terminal the whole arrangement is, but he doesn't know what it is.
Which goes down hard on too many other layers and guilt and frustration, twisted and twined several ways here already.
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And. It's. He's not dead. He's not even sure this thing, this thing with Danny, will last to the end of the month, no less the end of another week, when it's not even two weeks out the gate, and a lot of it has been spent on their toes, doing their jobs, or falling the hell right into each other, like they are going to burn each other's skin off.
Then, last night. He can't even. He didn't. He did say that, and Danny did stay. Didn't even argue or throw it back at him.
But she's staring at him in shock, and all he can think to do finally is get his hands off her shoulders. Put them somewhere at his sides. Guilt about as dense as the uncertainty of every answer flooding his head, helping his heart beat continue to pound away in his chest and his ears. Are they seriously seeing each other?
Yes?
No?
Maybe?
What does that even, seriously, look like? When no one knows. Not really. Not clearly. Neither Cath or Kono. When the last conversation they had about it was some six days ago, and ended with Steve parroting Danny's words back to him? When the closest to something he got to saying himself was none of this is a joke to me. Before the rest was Danny's words, uncertain and forever imprinted on his mind.
I don't want to go anywhere. Words so stuck in this house, where Danny is a spectre of the last week, too. Layered over years of Doris, when he's suddenly everywhere. The shouting, shoving, couch, desk, chairs. Impossible that it wasn't so loud seconds ago. When he's looking at it and back to her, and he's not sure he has any more of serious answer for Cath than he did for Danny.
He knows what he doesn't want it to be, he knows how terminal the whole arrangement is, but he doesn't know what it is.
Which goes down hard on too many other layers and guilt and frustration, twisted and twined several ways here already.