Lt. Catherine Rollins (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gonna_owe_me) wrote2013-01-16 03:40 pm
gonna_owe_me) wrote2013-01-16 03:40 pm
Entry tags:
Post 3.01 - The McGarrett Family Home
It doesn't come as any kind of surprise to her that she hasn't been able to stop thinking about Steve.
Neither does the fact that those thoughts come with a hefty side-helping of guilt. She should have known those trees were too close to the window. She should have been faster, more alert. Maybe they could have caught him, if she'd been doing the damn job Steve told her to do, if she'd done it the way he thought she could.
No surprise there: like she told him, she's not a bodyguard. She's a long way from basic, or doing anything that isn't in a gym or in front of a computer, and he doesn't blame her, but in some ways that just makes it worse.
So she puts in her request for leave right away, requests the weekend, and it's granted without too many hoops to jump through, but she's got to give up her Friday night and part of Saturday morning, which is fine, too. All she needs is to change, find a pair of shorts and a breezy, teal-colored top that hangs loose off her shoulders. Slides a pair of sandals on, brushes out her hair, washes her face, puts on a little makeup. She skips the gym, but throws running shoes, shorts, and a sports bra into the little bag she packs, along with a swimsuit, before slinging it over a shoulder and hitting the pavement.
The sun is high and hot, and she stops at a food truck, first, grabs two cardboard boxes, steaming with a scent that makes her stomach rumble and curl in on itself, before hailing a cab and sliding into the too-warm, hot polyester scented backseat, and giving the address.
It's been a while since she's been here. Cab rolling off in a faint crunch of gravel, leaving her with the tote over her arm, the food in her hand, looking up at the house with eyes squinting in the sun.
Doris left last night. Right? That gives Steve last evening, all night, and this morning to do his thing, be alone, brood if he wants to, deal with the admittedly ridiculous hand he's been given, and she'd have respected that, even if she didn't have to work, which is why she didn't call or text, just let him be, but it's daylight now, and it's gorgeous out, and there's only so much alone time Steve can really take. No matter what he might think.
Leading her up the path to the door, to knock, adjusting the slippery straps of her shirt, brushing hair out of her eyes as she waits. Rearranging her expression just like she does her makeup, or her clothes, so that when the door opens, she's got nothing there but a smile and the usual pleased light at seeing him.
Neither does the fact that those thoughts come with a hefty side-helping of guilt. She should have known those trees were too close to the window. She should have been faster, more alert. Maybe they could have caught him, if she'd been doing the damn job Steve told her to do, if she'd done it the way he thought she could.
No surprise there: like she told him, she's not a bodyguard. She's a long way from basic, or doing anything that isn't in a gym or in front of a computer, and he doesn't blame her, but in some ways that just makes it worse.
So she puts in her request for leave right away, requests the weekend, and it's granted without too many hoops to jump through, but she's got to give up her Friday night and part of Saturday morning, which is fine, too. All she needs is to change, find a pair of shorts and a breezy, teal-colored top that hangs loose off her shoulders. Slides a pair of sandals on, brushes out her hair, washes her face, puts on a little makeup. She skips the gym, but throws running shoes, shorts, and a sports bra into the little bag she packs, along with a swimsuit, before slinging it over a shoulder and hitting the pavement.
The sun is high and hot, and she stops at a food truck, first, grabs two cardboard boxes, steaming with a scent that makes her stomach rumble and curl in on itself, before hailing a cab and sliding into the too-warm, hot polyester scented backseat, and giving the address.
It's been a while since she's been here. Cab rolling off in a faint crunch of gravel, leaving her with the tote over her arm, the food in her hand, looking up at the house with eyes squinting in the sun.
Doris left last night. Right? That gives Steve last evening, all night, and this morning to do his thing, be alone, brood if he wants to, deal with the admittedly ridiculous hand he's been given, and she'd have respected that, even if she didn't have to work, which is why she didn't call or text, just let him be, but it's daylight now, and it's gorgeous out, and there's only so much alone time Steve can really take. No matter what he might think.
Leading her up the path to the door, to knock, adjusting the slippery straps of her shirt, brushing hair out of her eyes as she waits. Rearranging her expression just like she does her makeup, or her clothes, so that when the door opens, she's got nothing there but a smile and the usual pleased light at seeing him.
no subject
Finger tips in his hair, palm resting against his spine, his neck, the back of his head. All places people do not touch him. Places that serve to remind him how easily the human body can be hammered and bowled over. Strikes for an elbow, the flat of a hand, a hand solid object. But those thoughts barely register, like blurry photographs when he's feeling the weight of Danny's fingers. And the unexpected, turn of his head, Danny pressing his face into his hair.
Making it impossible to breathe. Not hard. Impossible. Like all the air evaporated for that breath he can hear Danny take.
Lips shifting his hair, breath and sound stirring it, pressing against his skin, when Danny's talking again.
Following it up with something so soft Steve is dumb struck trying to figure out if it was a kiss.
Before even softer words fall out of Danny's mouth, getting caught in his head and his ears and his chest. Soft and sleepy, a little pushing, a little affectionate. And then that word. That word that makes his heart flounder and spasm a little, like a startled school of fish at an unexpected diver. Having no idea which way to go and going everywhere at once. On that tone, and those words.
Leaving him swallowing, still without a breath to pull in, and shaking his head. Uncertain if the last is at Danny, or himself, or this crazy impossible situation they've gotten themselves into, can't, won't, aren't getting themselves out of, that won't magically neaten itself up. But how that tone, that word, makes him shove at all of it. A few more days, hours, minutes, seconds. Anything.
Making him whisper, against Danny's neck and shoulder, "Shhh." A quiet, close shushing, that sounds barely frustrated at all. Like he's not tugging Danny a little closer, a little more under and against him, with that hand on his side. Like Danny is the one who's obviously besieged by this position, by all this, being held close by the force of a weight stronger than gravity. Not him, and not the whole point that he's keeping his eyes closed, breathing in, catching Danny's heartbeat against his own shoulder, his chest.
Not thinking about how even if he does -- fall asleep; babe -- he'll wake up and have to move. In half an hour, an hour, whenever he tries to straighten up and shift. But it isn't now, and until it is, he's just going to sink in here. To the soft slowing breath of Danny against his hair. Hand warm on his neck, against his head, the sheets still learning to breathe and give up fighting it all until morning, or an hour.
Whenever. Whatever. The only thing that matters right now is Danny, right here, and the soft slow in and out, in and out.