Hoped he would have mentioned it earlier, when? In with every other thing he said in the kitchen? Like somehow he could have just slipped that in between the updates of the last week to two months, and a bite of food?
Hey, he and Danny fell into bed together, after this encounter in a diner with another woman and well-accosted coffee cup, and all the lines that made sense, before he left, before those voicemails and Wo Fat and Doris, seem less like lines and more like faded smudged he either can't, or doesn't want, make out in the pitch dark anymore?
That the only defense he has is that Danny is the best cop, father, person he's ever known and he's known a lot of people. Hundreds of the best of the best out there. That sometimes it feels like Danny, there somewhere within twenty feet of him, is the only reason he still remembers to do more than keep breathing and walking in a straight line, doing his job. Reminds him there's more to a day than that.
"I know." Is frustrated, pinpointed by the transparency of it. Of the fact Danny can allude to not knowing, but Cath does.
And. He does. He knows that he should have told her earlier, somewhere, somehow, maybe when he'd been thinking about it on the drive, it like he knows each of the three things he never got around to telling her. All three of those, walking into and out of each other, for vastly different reasons. Kept, and silent both. All. In case. He's always been the best lock box. There's so much in here no one's here or heard of.
"But I can't--" His hand comes of his neck, with a gesture in the air. "--tell you either of those."
A hard can't, more solid than earlier, more like. More like the black lined in his missions. Because there are other lives it might effect now. There are whole court cases that anything attached to Danny's life and work and world could be effected now. Tip anything and everything that means anything to him, from Five-0 all the way down to Grace, could be hit as a domino.
When it matters, it all matters, and he's trying to think of anything he can say, about the whole thing. Abjectly. For her.
"It's new." If, also, has been there forever. Been knocking Steve stomach out and burning him for over a year at this point.
But with Danny -- with Danny looking at him like that, with Danny knocking out CIA agents, with Danny kissing him good morning and staying in his bed, and having a fucking clue what it means when Steve can't look away, might rather be set on fire and chained to bomb, rather than look away from him. "A few weeks only. It might not--"
Those words come out in a tumble, because they are so linked in his head. And even when he presses his lips together, he knows it's, also, because really there's not much he keeps from her on certain lines. Because this whole space has always been theirs. Fun. Free. Easy. No rules. No requirements.
He shook his head, and finished it, even if it feels like stabbing himself, quick and true. "It might not even last the next few."
He wants it to. He can feel that, clinging to his words and the inside of his entire chest. He can't shake it, anymore than the calls.
And if it doesn't, that was even more reason not to rock the boat, or muddy the waters around it. So that if it goes South or Danny, and that still caught, trapped in amber expression of such shocked and embarrassed almost fear, suddenly does run away from this whole new upended world, thing, sexuality, Steve, then maybe it's better not to have it all out there. Out where it would be like weights on his feet anytime he looked at anyone.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-02-03 11:12 pm (UTC)Hey, he and Danny fell into bed together, after this encounter in a diner with another woman and well-accosted coffee cup, and all the lines that made sense, before he left, before those voicemails and Wo Fat and Doris, seem less like lines and more like faded smudged he either can't, or doesn't want, make out in the pitch dark anymore?
That the only defense he has is that Danny is the best cop, father, person he's ever known and he's known a lot of people. Hundreds of the best of the best out there. That sometimes it feels like Danny, there somewhere within twenty feet of him, is the only reason he still remembers to do more than keep breathing and walking in a straight line, doing his job. Reminds him there's more to a day than that.
"I know." Is frustrated, pinpointed by the transparency of it. Of the fact Danny can allude to not knowing, but Cath does.
And. He does. He knows that he should have told her earlier, somewhere, somehow, maybe when he'd been thinking about it on the drive, it like he knows each of the three things he never got around to telling her. All three of those, walking into and out of each other, for vastly different reasons. Kept, and silent both. All. In case. He's always been the best lock box. There's so much in here no one's here or heard of.
"But I can't--" His hand comes of his neck, with a gesture in the air. "--tell you either of those."
A hard can't, more solid than earlier, more like. More like the black lined in his missions. Because there are other lives it might effect now. There are whole court cases that anything attached to Danny's life and work and world could be effected now. Tip anything and everything that means anything to him, from Five-0 all the way down to Grace, could be hit as a domino.
When it matters, it all matters, and he's trying to think of anything he can say, about the whole thing. Abjectly. For her.
"It's new." If, also, has been there forever. Been knocking Steve stomach out and burning him for over a year at this point.
But with Danny -- with Danny looking at him like that, with Danny knocking out CIA agents, with Danny kissing him good morning and staying in his bed, and having a fucking clue what it means when Steve can't look away, might rather be set on fire and chained to bomb, rather than look away from him. "A few weeks only. It might not--"
Those words come out in a tumble, because they are so linked in his head. And even when he presses his lips together, he knows it's, also, because really there's not much he keeps from her on certain lines. Because this whole space has always been theirs. Fun. Free. Easy. No rules. No requirements.
He shook his head, and finished it, even if it feels like stabbing himself, quick and true. "It might not even last the next few."
He wants it to. He can feel that, clinging to his words and the inside of his entire chest. He can't shake it, anymore than the calls.
And if it doesn't, that was even more reason not to rock the boat, or muddy the waters around it. So that if it goes South or Danny, and that still caught, trapped in amber expression of such shocked and embarrassed almost fear, suddenly does run away from this whole new upended world, thing, sexuality, Steve, then maybe it's better not to have it all out there. Out where it would be like weights on his feet anytime he looked at anyone.