What was he thinking? It hits like another bullet, ricochets through his head, his chest, louder and louder and louder. Just keeps going off. Like a siren and spotlights in a compound break-in or break-out. Loud and blinding.
What was he thinking?
He was thinking that Danny was probably trying to make it back to the camaro as fast as he could. That somehow with one look he'd grabbed Steve's stomach, his lungs, all his vital organs. Caught them clean and fast with a shining sharp hook, and they were jerking further and further from his grasp with each of Danny's steps he couldn't see, but felt like it was tremoring the ground.
He was thinking about that sick shot of sour embarrassment and sharp defensiveness that slammed together in his head, shoulders, everywhere to his edges, like he was slamming the ground in the plane again. Because he can't defend the implication of her words, but he can't stand the notion of anyone implying the there is a downside to Danny aside from ludicrous rants and being as over-protective as he is over-reactive.
He was thinking that the whole world had narrowed down to the wide, disbelief in Cath's eyes, like he'd actively struck her. The shock and -- was that disappointment? there in her face. Making the words come shooting out like everything else she'd ever considered had been rational. Everything except that she just figured out. The he'd chosen Danny over her. That he'd chosen something possibly career blocking, if not tribunal earning over her.
He was thinking that he had to leave, had to go, now now now, even if it was going to make this even more wrong.
Even if it was going to make her even more right. But he couldn't actually lose Danny. He couldn't lose Danny who stood not fifteen feet from this spot and told him, asking just to be fired quietly and left alone. Who took on the CIA, and North Korea. Whose heart was nothing like Steve's: messy, exposed the elements on his shoulder, not less but more for each sucessive beating, fragile enough to be trampled in a glance.
no subject
Just keeps going off. Like a siren and spotlights in a compound break-in or break-out. Loud and blinding.
What was he thinking?
He was thinking that Danny was probably trying to make it back to the camaro as fast as he could. That somehow with one look he'd grabbed Steve's stomach, his lungs, all his vital organs. Caught them clean and fast with a shining sharp hook, and they were jerking further and further from his grasp with each of Danny's steps he couldn't see, but felt like it was tremoring the ground.
He was thinking about that sick shot of sour embarrassment and sharp defensiveness that slammed together in his head, shoulders, everywhere to his edges, like he was slamming the ground in the plane again. Because he can't defend the implication of her words, but he can't stand the notion of anyone implying the there is a downside to Danny aside from ludicrous rants and being as over-protective as he is over-reactive.
He was thinking that the whole world had narrowed down to the wide, disbelief in Cath's eyes, like he'd actively struck her. The shock and -- was that disappointment? there in her face. Making the words come shooting out like everything else she'd ever considered had been rational. Everything except that she just figured out. The he'd chosen Danny over her. That he'd chosen something possibly career blocking, if not tribunal earning over her.
He was thinking that he had to leave, had to go, now now now, even if it was going to make this even more wrong.
Even if it was going to make her even more right. But he couldn't actually lose Danny. He couldn't lose Danny who stood not fifteen feet from this spot and told him, asking just to be fired quietly and left alone. Who took on the CIA, and North Korea. Whose heart was nothing like Steve's: messy, exposed the elements on his shoulder, not less but more for each sucessive beating, fragile enough to be trampled in a glance.