Hands. He has them. He doesn't know what to do with them, when the one on the doorknob jerks off it like the metal expanded into blistering heat under his palm and fingers. Feeling like he is made up hands and feet, none of them touching anything, none of them working like they're supposed to. Like his heart. Not working like it's supposed to. Making one mistake after another, and he'd always read that a heart beats without any effort or consciousness from the person carrying it. That it will just continue to beat, and do what it's supposed to do, without any input from him, which he always found comforting, because he is such an idiot, because he can't be trusted to make the right decisions, but it turns out his heart is just as stupid as the rest of him. Dependent on someone else. And this is what happens when the damn thing doesn't just mind its own business.
Because here it is, limping. Here he is, walking away. Turning on his heel and storming back up to the door, a thousand angry thoughts flooding. How. Why. But. Like all those questions aren't ones he can answer. He's a detective. The answers are always there, if he looks.
Like the fact that Catherine couldn't be here on Friday night, but he could. And the fact that he's noted a number of placeholders for her, in the past two years. And that maybe when Steve said stay it could have been anyone, but it should have been Catherine. And now she's back, so...they can go ahead and find each other again. Because he's usually here. And Cath usually isn't. But Cath is the one who used to stay the night, every time she was around, whenever she could. Who Steve followed to drill on the Enterprise, surrounded by hundreds of sailors just to spend more time with her. Who has known him forever. So much longer than Danny. It makes sense. He even hopes, distantly, that she actually sticks around for a while, because Steve could probably use it and he doesn't think he could handle warming her seat anytime soon. Or again.
He's not even at the car yet. He keeps getting lost, here in Steve's front yard, between turning towards the door, and turning towards the gate, because it turns out losing Steve is like losing a compass, in the woods, in the dark. Like losing a compass, and flashlight, and boots and clothes. Like losing the path right out from under his feet. Like losing gravity. His head is floating somewhere beyond the roof, a balloon lost to vagrant winds, and he probably shouldn't drive like this, but he definitely can't stay here.
Pretending to be glad Cath is back. Pretending to be glad they are so comfortable on the couch, that every smile isn't like a knife in the back of his neck.
Maybe it's better. Have it done with early on. Always going to happen, and now that sword has fallen and it's sticking, halfway sliced through his shoulder and chest, but at least it's down and he doesn't have to worry about it anymore.
Still. He wishes Steve had listened. Or had told him. Or had...Christ. He doesn't even know. There was a second where it seemed like -- but that doesn't happen, isn't what Danny gets, so he blames his heart for getting it mixed up and tells it to just go back to beating like it's supposed to. Starting to get angry with the way it is still. Limping. Like some part of it snapped and is getting dragged, useless.
What an asshole. Him. His heart. This whole situation. Danny. He agrees, but it's said in a totally different tone than the burning, desperate loss blurring every thought. Isn't even his voice.
Steve's. Who is outside now, hurrying, looking alarmed, which he shouldn't, right, who could blame him, Danny knew better, he knew and he ignored it, so this is no one's fault but his. Faintly aggravated with himself for not having gotten to the car yet, but pausing on the path anyway, for whatever it is Steve feels like he needs to say.
Shuffling through flash cards, though the ones he finds feel like they fit wrong. From someone else's mouth. "Look, sorry to barge in on you, okay, I'm just gonna --" Jerking a thumb at what he hopes is the car, before the words dry up and he feels like he's back in front of the door, unable to walk away, unable to go in.
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Because here it is, limping. Here he is, walking away. Turning on his heel and storming back up to the door, a thousand angry thoughts flooding. How. Why. But. Like all those questions aren't ones he can answer. He's a detective. The answers are always there, if he looks.
Like the fact that Catherine couldn't be here on Friday night, but he could. And the fact that he's noted a number of placeholders for her, in the past two years. And that maybe when Steve said stay it could have been anyone, but it should have been Catherine. And now she's back, so...they can go ahead and find each other again. Because he's usually here. And Cath usually isn't. But Cath is the one who used to stay the night, every time she was around, whenever she could. Who Steve followed to drill on the Enterprise, surrounded by hundreds of sailors just to spend more time with her. Who has known him forever. So much longer than Danny. It makes sense. He even hopes, distantly, that she actually sticks around for a while, because Steve could probably use it and he doesn't think he could handle warming her seat anytime soon. Or again.
He's not even at the car yet. He keeps getting lost, here in Steve's front yard, between turning towards the door, and turning towards the gate, because it turns out losing Steve is like losing a compass, in the woods, in the dark. Like losing a compass, and flashlight, and boots and clothes. Like losing the path right out from under his feet. Like losing gravity. His head is floating somewhere beyond the roof, a balloon lost to vagrant winds, and he probably shouldn't drive like this, but he definitely can't stay here.
Pretending to be glad Cath is back. Pretending to be glad they are so comfortable on the couch, that every smile isn't like a knife in the back of his neck.
Maybe it's better. Have it done with early on. Always going to happen, and now that sword has fallen and it's sticking, halfway sliced through his shoulder and chest, but at least it's down and he doesn't have to worry about it anymore.
Still. He wishes Steve had listened. Or had told him. Or had...Christ. He doesn't even know. There was a second where it seemed like -- but that doesn't happen, isn't what Danny gets, so he blames his heart for getting it mixed up and tells it to just go back to beating like it's supposed to. Starting to get angry with the way it is still. Limping. Like some part of it snapped and is getting dragged, useless.
What an asshole. Him. His heart. This whole situation. Danny. He agrees, but it's said in a totally different tone than the burning, desperate loss blurring every thought. Isn't even his voice.
Steve's. Who is outside now, hurrying, looking alarmed, which he shouldn't, right, who could blame him, Danny knew better, he knew and he ignored it, so this is no one's fault but his. Faintly aggravated with himself for not having gotten to the car yet, but pausing on the path anyway, for whatever it is Steve feels like he needs to say.
Shuffling through flash cards, though the ones he finds feel like they fit wrong. From someone else's mouth. "Look, sorry to barge in on you, okay, I'm just gonna --" Jerking a thumb at what he hopes is the car, before the words dry up and he feels like he's back in front of the door, unable to walk away, unable to go in.