The air might be making it back into Danny's body, because color seems to be embarrassingly slinking its way back into Danny's face. When he's batting back more words. Important words, but the racket of noise that is Danny, Danny saying more than four words, more than nothing at all, more than excuses that are just letters given sound, thrown at his head, while running away. It's more important.
Along with the color, and the way he's finally taking breaths in. When the words, okay, they have some merit. It's not like Steve or Danny have an of course to throw at anything. Four days ago, he was leaving. For parts unknown and to take god knows however much time it might take. Had to choose it. Over Five-0. Over Danny. His family legacy. This thing that keeps tearing every shred of him further apart.
It's so bitterly, painfully, ironic. Because it's still an of course.
He had to choose Asia, and the end of this mystery that's been choking him forever. That's just found a new way of decking him with a boulder every time he so much as glances in the direction of that never forgotten face, that didn't need to be forgotten, because it never died. But he wasn't going to just stumble out of bed, with Danny, send him off to his daughter, and fall right into bed with Cath. He wasn't that kind of person.
There wasn't even a world where the concept Danny was certain he was wasn't going to stay, lodged there -- the face he'd made steps into the room, and the one when he got out here, and the sight of him right now, rubbing his hand over his face not even looking up -- here in the flood lights, after even Cath's disbelief that he'd even dare to consider this, no less had gone all in and stopped everything else for it.
When Danny's hands came up to wipe his face, looking down and away, but definitely breathing. His shoulders shifting like he's just figuring out he has bones at all, Steve let his hands fall away. Even if it just added another, different kind of, ache to the complicated tension running his body rigid.
Let them hang at his side only half a second before crossing them in front of him. For too many reasons.
"Good." Even if it was more a punctuation of a word. Of his voice sounding, than the word itself sound good at all. Before Steve was twisting to look back toward the door, irritable, and well aware the roller coaster might not be anywhere near done, with a short glance toward all the windows, too.
Following it up, irritably inviting, with, "Then, can we go back in the house, or are we staying out here for the rest of the night?"
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-02-06 09:18 pm (UTC)Along with the color, and the way he's finally taking breaths in. When the words, okay, they have some merit. It's not like Steve or Danny have an of course to throw at anything. Four days ago, he was leaving. For parts unknown and to take god knows however much time it might take. Had to choose it. Over Five-0. Over Danny. His family legacy. This thing that keeps tearing every shred of him further apart.
It's so bitterly, painfully, ironic. Because it's still an of course.
He had to choose Asia, and the end of this mystery that's been choking him forever. That's just found a new way of decking him with a boulder every time he so much as glances in the direction of that never forgotten face, that didn't need to be forgotten, because it never died. But he wasn't going to just stumble out of bed, with Danny, send him off to his daughter, and fall right into bed with Cath. He wasn't that kind of person.
There wasn't even a world where the concept Danny was certain he was wasn't going to stay, lodged there -- the face he'd made steps into the room, and the one when he got out here, and the sight of him right now, rubbing his hand over his face not even looking up -- here in the flood lights, after even Cath's disbelief that he'd even dare to consider this, no less had gone all in and stopped everything else for it.
When Danny's hands came up to wipe his face, looking down and away, but definitely breathing. His shoulders shifting like he's just figuring out he has bones at all, Steve let his hands fall away. Even if it just added another, different kind of, ache to the complicated tension running his body rigid.
Let them hang at his side only half a second before crossing them in front of him. For too many reasons.
"Good." Even if it was more a punctuation of a word. Of his voice sounding, than the word itself sound good at all. Before Steve was twisting to look back toward the door, irritable, and well aware the roller coaster might not be anywhere near done, with a short glance toward all the windows, too.
Following it up, irritably inviting, with, "Then, can we go back in the house, or are we staying out here for the rest of the night?"