Post 3.01 - The McGarrett Family Home

[gonna_owe_me]

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.

Comments

[gonna_owe_me]

They do end up going to the cliffs.

Breakfast first, after some coffee at the house, even though her leftover loco moco is still sitting there in the fridge. They end up going to the cliffs, and it's actually pretty great: her muscles feel good, stretching after the run up the mountain, faintly complaining in a way that just makes her want to push them further, faster, harder. Out under the bright bow of sky, that clouds suddenly and buckets them with rain until her hair is soaking and Steve's shirt is sticking and everything around them is getting washed clean.

A sudden downpour that vanishes, 'island time' a myth to the weather, which changes when it pleases and usually abruptly and for the very temporary worse, which means that by the time they get back and find lunch, it's beautiful again, and that beach gets put to good use.

She does love it. The beach. The calm swell of water that's nothing like open ocean, or sky. The smell of sand and synthetic coconut, slippery sunscreen getting rubbed into her skin. The sunshine she lounges her in charging her up like a solar battery, until she feels like her skin is hot and glowing with it, and all her muscles are relaxed, grateful for the break after two days of trying to keep up with Steve.

Plenty of time to swim, matching out long smooth strokes that pump her heartrate back up to a steady run. And they could, go someplace. Do something else. But though they both somewhat halfheartedly consider finding waves or another park or leaving the house, they don't. Which is no bad thing. She wonders if it might partly be getting back up on the horse, Steve staying here. Like he needs to prove it'll be fine, even with this weekend, even with the years of tragedy and loneliness soaked into those walls.

But he stays, and he's even good company, even if sometimes his smiles seem a little dimmed and he gets a little lost in his thoughts, now and again.

Her questions have minimized, though, too. Asking the only specific, whether whoever it is is busy this weekend, rather than pointing out her concern that it's been a day, over a day, and there hasn't been a single other person here. She's not even sure he's checked up with anyone aside from Chin and Kono.

[thebesteverseen]

Offering to grill for dinner is easy. Dragging out a little of everything, maybe because she's been good to put up with him, with the moments he just tunes out, with the fact she keeps asking questions he gives the shortest answers to, with how he still hasn't told her everything about the last few days either. So, little of everything. She deserves it, at the very least. For staying, for making the day more than he would have without her.

Fish. Chicken. Shrimp. Sausage. Cherry Tomatoes. Ball onions. Pineapple. Mushrooms. Green, Yellow, Orange Peppers. Smaller amounts, wider variety. All of them sliced and skewered and grilled while the sky was going giving the world the inverse of dawn. Pastel colors woke up, but the evening here sometimes seemed to set the very sky on fire. Like the sun wanted to be remembered. Brilliant and glorious colors stitched across the satin beauty of silver waves.

Giving them ribbons of light when he's got a large plate of kebabs finally finished, yelling across the space to where she wants all of this to go. He could have drug out a table and the lights, again, and the could have ended up in the dinning room, but they end up back on the couch. Plate on the table in front of them, barefoot and loose from the weekend, with something on the tv neither of them are really following.

Or at least he isn't. Even when he's giving her the stink eye for throwing a cherry tomato at his shoulder, for a deservedly crass dig, because really. He could care less about the tv, and tomorrow he's going to miss her when she goes back on shift. For however long that is before Five-0 steals all of his attention and he forgets for a few days. When, where, how long, other people. Even her.

Which made it worth trying to remember the end of these long hours, and the fact she stayed through them all, too.

[haole_cop]

He doesn't even stop at the apartment, after he drops Gracie off.

After sucking up every possible second of the weekend with her, like each drop is the only water he'd have before six months in the desert. Starting with breakfast, where she had French toast and drenched it in coconut syrup and the fake maple that still reminds him of the diners back home (and man, he misses those diners, misses the corned beef special, piled high on rye and stuffed with coleslaw and Thousand Island. The closest thing here is Spam, and that just, really. Doesn't cut it.) and he had sunny-side-up eggs, because, as he explained, this was a sunny-side-up sort of day, getting the be with her.

It's not even one hundred percent a lie. Just picking her up, catching her in a hug she'd run into and feeling her arms go around his neck was enough to improve his outlook on life by about a thousand percent, while simultaneously reminding him why he has to fight this thing, why he has to try and keep her, because she is the single best part of his life, the single best part of him. Smiling and beautiful, looking forward to their weekend together. Rolling her eyes at him when he made that stupid joke about the eggs, but her smile curling and pleased.

It's enough that the ache is manageable, for the day.

A day he spent at the aquarium, and then a park, until blue twilight began falling and it was time to take her out for a nice dinner, dressed up, at a properly adult restaurant, because she's getting to be a young lady now, and this, Grace, this is the sort of place you should hold out for, thirty years from now, when you start dating.

Do you like it?

It's nice, Danno.

Even when it led to questions about Gabby, and the explanation he gave her, sober-eyed over shrimp cocktail and her Shirley Temple, about how he and Gabby decided not to see each other anymore, and it's no one's fault, okay, they just decided they wanted different things, which he does not specify, because Gabby wanted him, and he wanted, well...

Steve.

Which does not come up on the lists of recommended topics for discussion with your pre-teen daughter, none that he's ever seen or considered, so he skated past it, hands folded on the tabletop, against fine white cloth, acutely aware of the phone not ringing in his pocket.

She took it like a champ, disappointment and all, but her wistfulness all but disappeared once they were home and he commanded both of them into pajamas before pulling out the sofa bed and tossing her, shrieking, into a nest of pillows and blankets. Held up DVDs one by one, for appraisal, to be sorted into piles, first, of 'definitely could watch' to 'maybe if we're desperate' to 'never again, why do I own this movie to begin with, are DVDs flammable?'

(The answer to which is a resounding...not really. More melty than anything.)

The process for picking a movie was long and intense, but they agreed on one (Grace's choice), and she curled into him, ice cream and popcorn balanced in the folds of the blankets, and she fell asleep there, too.

He managed to even make it through most of the night without admitting that was his plan all along. Not bad, considering there hadn't been a second of the day where he wasn't wondering about Steve, thinking about Steve, wishing Steve and Steve's ridiculous mass were taking up the entire fucking pullout bed.

But he wasn't. He was alone. In a way that would drive Danny crazy. To drink. Up a wall and over the edge. In a way that Danny wasn't, all weekend. Through Saturday and into Sunday, which turned faintly gray at the edges after lunch, when the countdown to dropping her off started and ended with a last hug and her goodbyes still in his ear.

Leaving him feeling slightly like the sidewalk was tilted under his shoes, before finding his keys, his bearings, the car, and driving away. World in a blur, driving by instinct and memory as much as paying attention, until he snaps out of it, and makes the turn that won't bring him back to his house. Pushing the pedal down with sudden urgency, heart thudding hard and worried in his chest. It's been all weekend, and he's heard nothing, gotten only one brief text. Guilt is shoving itself into the cracks between his ribs, lengthens his steps when he pulls up to the gate, lets himself in.

The lights are on, and he can hear the TV, and, crap, maybe he should have brought some beer, or something, or gone home and changed out of weekend clothes, t-shirt and jeans from going outside and trying to coax Grace into playing catch, but he's here and it's already been way too long, so he just opens the door instead, and strolls in with an acerbic greeting already on his tongue before it dies there and dries to leather.

Steve's there. Yeah.

But Steve is not alone. Not at all. Not like Danny's been thinking he was. Not even a little. Because Steve is sitting on the couch, with Catherine tucked comfortably next to him, smiling at something she's saying. With an empty plate in front of them, scattered with the remnants of, oh, that looks like it was pretty good. Noted, in a daze.

Just like he notes the way Catherine smiles, sudden and bright and beautiful, and, God, she really is. Beautiful. And smart and strong and in the Navy and everything a guy like Steve could want, or any guy, really, she's great, Cath, and she doesn't deserve the way he suddenly hates her like she's actually a swarm of locusts, and he is actually losing it, seriously losing it, right here, half out of Steve's doorway, as she's saying Danny all pleased and how was your weekend with your daughter? and he's got nothing at all. Can't even reach into the gaping hole that was his brain and pull out words.

He thinks he says something like "good" or maybe it's "sorry to interrupt" or maybe it's both, but either way he's backing out the door and closing it soldily before the words hit the floor and shatter this suddenly tissue-thin icicle of a thing that had been racing back here.

[thebesteverseen]

There's not an off section of his day, his week, his head really. Not, especially, this week. When the impulse for the door unlatching to their side is still for Steve's hand to slip toward the piece at his hip. Knowing the safety is off, at the same time as the knowledge that there is only one person on the island of the peace of the mind that his front door is revolving door that doesn't require knocking, as the knowledge it must be late, have gotten late, if Grace is back with Rachel.

So many thoughts and absolutely not a single one is sticking, because Danny is walking through his front door, which he can see straight over Cath's head. Blonde hair and -- yeah. Yeah. Steve can't even help the bewildered, amazed smile that smacks his face suddenly -- and blue jeans. T-shirt, too. But blue jeans. Looking like he came straight from whatever it was he got up to with his daughter.

Which is good, right? They had fun. Steve will just stop considering those pants and drag his eyes back up to Danny's face.

Where all the puddle of warmth that suddenly splattered everywhere like somehow water had started bubbling up, air started coming in, again, freezes on Danny's face. Pale, like he's going to faint, more like he suddenly wants to lose his dinner on the floor of Steve's landing. Mouth twitching like there are words that keep almost, but never finding his voice.

Eyes so wide and so bright it's kicking up Steve's chest, aimed for the dead center, like a sharpened icepick.

As Danny's eyes were focused on Cath, hardly evening moving at all. Any second the gaze moves back in his direction it goes back to her. Cringing just enough Steve thinks it's ratchets off like the bullets that slammed his back this week, when Cath's words hardly seem to touch him, before he's backing away. Panic and desperation, sickened confirmation, denial and something else, something Steve can't even name, but he hates it so much already, skittering wildly on that face.

When Danny's retreating faster than the few steps he came in, scatter-shot words in a tone so sharp and unfocused it could be its own weapon. Before the door was slamming. Only it seemed to keep slamming, the door and his his heart, somewhere up in his throat and his ears, even at the same time as he'd pushed up from the couch, with "Danny--" all at the same time as the door went.

Maybe only just then catching himself, between surging up and the fact Cath was between him and the door.

Making his gaze drop to her, even as he knew he had to go, shoulders suddenly frozen for a half dozen other, newer, reasons.

[gonna_owe_me]

It's impossible not to notice. Any reaction. Starting with the glance she takes at Steve as she smiling, saying hi to Danny, who has popped in out of nowhere. It's nice of him, she's thinking, to stop by, especially since this was just his weekend with his daughter, and she likes Danny, is glad to see him.

But not as glad as Steve is. Steve, who is smiling this helplessly brilliant smile that she's not sure she's ever seen on him before. Who looks suddenly like he can breathe again, like he'd just broken surface and can gulp in fresh air to lungs shrieking for it. She'd thought he was relaxed a second ago, but that's nothing to this, like he's been living in shadow all weekend and the sun finally rose, which makes her take another quick look at Danny, who is stumbling over an answer to her question and some apology that rings strangely painful.

Who isn't smiling. Whose eyes are trained on her, wide and surprised and alarm that isn't alarm so much as it is -- what, what is that? Who is looking like Steve actually pulled that piece at his hip and shot him in the gut. Like he's about to be sick. Before the door closes again after being open for the space of about five seconds, and he's gone.

Just as Steve makes an abrupt, cancelled motion, and she turns back to him, lips wanting to form a question, but then she sees his face and it's like turning a key. Sudden panic and desperation painted over what had been the best smile he'd given all weekend, every inch of him halted in mid-motion, like he's actually sprinting for the door but she'd managed to pause him like she can a movie, just before the spring.

Clues slotting together in her head. Everything he couldn't tell her. No name, no clue whether she knew who it was. Where that person was all weekend and why they weren't here, because that person was, is, Danny, and he had Grace, but he must have come immediately from dropping her off.

The raw look on Steve's face and the belated,reflexive way his name comes out, shortened, interrupted by the door, is all the confirmation she needs.

She's torn, momentarily, between reactions, but one wins out, the one he knew would, so he didn't tell her, but this, this is insane, this is so much worse than just reticence, it's actively damaging, to both of them. Moving on the couch cushion so she can get a better look at him, feeling the need to move, to do something, to smack him in the head and get him to think about what he's doing.

"Are you kidding me? What are you thinking, Steve?"

[thebesteverseen]

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.

[gonna_owe_me]

"Oh, Steve."

With a breath through her nose and a shake of her head, while her shoulders slump a little.

It's such a bad idea. It's such a bad idea. They've had it drilled into them over and over, and she's willing to bet Danny has, too. It's one of those things that has to be regulated, working in high risk situations, in close quarters, with distinct levels of accountability and clear-cut ranks. It's too easy to make everything personal. To find yourself making the wrong decisions, mistakes. Getting too involved. Too easy for all those rankings to just dissolve outside work, threatening the structure once back in the office, on the field.

He knows all of that. She could list off every reason in the book, but he knows them as well as she does. Fraternization in the ranks. Why it's a bad idea. Why it's frowned upon, to the point of disciplinary action. When they could both be looking down the barrel of a career-ending decision.

And she wants to say all of it. She wants to yell at him, smack him in the head, make him see reason, but he's staring at her with naked panic in his face and she's not sure he's seeing her at all, when it's obvious his heart's gotten jerked outside and slammed behind the closed door, with Danny. The exact opposite of that bewildered, delighted smile of three seconds ago. Of the careful disbelief the other day, admitting that it was actually pretty good. The way it looks like he wouldn't be able to breathe right now even if she slapped an oxygen mask on his face.

There's nothing for it, no other choice to make. Not if she cares, and she does, she wants to see it again, that stupid goofy look, that sudden shining happiness, the way Steve filled in around the edges and suddenly became more himself than he's been all weekend.

It's a bad idea, but they can talk about it later. Right now he needs to: "Go."

Eyebrows up, head tipping towards the door as her hands lift and she starts to get up, because she is definitely not going to want to be here in the next ten minutes or so. A little sharper, faintly resigned, but no less certain that he should get up and go fix this before he winds up with exactly the scenario he was trying to avoid when he pushed her away earlier. "Will you get going? Or do you want him to leave?"

[thebesteverseen]

He knows that face. The one where her lips firm and she looks so put upon, even as she giving. The makes the mess of his stomach even more oiled, sliding, sloshing everywhere, in the center of a vice that won't stop tightening. On his lungs. On his ribs. On the edges of his vision. On the feeling of desperate loss, and the want to reject it. The feeling like he couldn't take losing both of them, either of them, but definitely not both, suddenly.

Except she shoving as much as she isn't touching him at all. Away from her. Toward Danny. A little sharper and louder the second time. Like she can't believe she's doing this. Which tangles up something in the middle of his heart, and forces it out of his mouth. "Cath -- I --"

It's coming at the same time as motion is finding his body. Like the free fall in a roller coaster. Ratcheting the rung going up -- click, click, click -- that moment of sudden, uncontrollable, stomach evaporating free fall -- nothing like skydiving from 30,000 somehow either -- and then the zoom with gravity and force suddenly catches you, spins you, shove you forward, and your body is unable to stop.

Like his feet, and his hands. The way he's making for the door, those two word bumping in his mouth like someone shoved ice cubes it. Freezing and burning his tongue all at once. When the best he can do, three steps, hand almost on the door is throw back an, "I'm sorry."

That he's barely paying attention to falling out of his own mouth. When it's an apology as much as a thank you. When he doesn't know if he's actually sorry. Except that he is. He's sorry he's throwing her under the bus, even for Danny. He's sorry he's running off without an explanation. He's sorry he couldn't give her one before. He's sorry this is how she found out. He's sorry that she's now complicit in this affair.

He's sorry, most of all, that he doesn't give a damn about any of it, for this second, when he's jerking the door open and gone.

Letting the door slam behind him, all forward movement, calling out his name, too loud when he realizes Danny's actually only about twenty-thirty feet away and not at his car even yet. Choking Danny's name half in his throat, when he knows that's what he should be sorriest for.

For the fact the whole world, the whole god damned world, is nothing at all to Danny.

Looking like he got hit by a car so hard that he can't even run away. Sending it slamming right back into Steve.

[haole_cop]

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.

[thebesteverseen]

He's moving too slow, jerky and it hits Steve. Like somehow it hadn't in the seconds before.

Like he'd been too busy with the first wave of surprise and shock to get to the words, the comparison, the knowledge hanging out in the back of his head waiting to be looked at dead-on. This face. He knows this face. And it makes him want to punch himself. Just this face. He knows this face so well he could document for you in picture still how it happens and how long it takes, piece by atomic piece to make it disappear.

When Danny is looking up at his name. Confused, like he hears it but doesn't recognize it. Before his shoulder set.

Steve has seen all of this. For days on end. In every single minute detail of it on Danny. He did. When Rachel left him, again.

When a sickening sort of inverse, like all a gravity-vertigo is slamming into him in less than half a second. Danny, walking in on him and Cath joking. Danny, telling him he had to inform her. Danny, telling him that he'd never seen Steve do anything but easy come, easy go. Danny, staring at him, like Steve's the one who's done this to him. Already now. Done. Past. With her.

Danny words still jumbled and awkward, eyes flitting to him and away just as fast, like looking Steve is going to physically hurt him more, while he rambles through an exit cue. And that vice inside Steve's chest is going to kill anything trying to live, beat, pump, be used, inside the span of his ribs. When he can't even pay attention to the words coming out of Danny's mouth, excuses and direction for having not even gotten to his car, and Steve knows how fast his partner can move.

When he's taking all the steps closer. To get into Danny's space. Hands up, very direct, like he can't even hear the part of his brain shouting that if he moves too fast, talks too loud, reaches out and touches him, Danny might just bolt. He can't. He can't even hear it. He can't. Because he didn't. Because he told her. Stopped her. Stopped them.

He can't hear anything over the desperate denial welling up, demanding he be heard, him, here, over everything else, whatever is going on in Danny's head, whatever it is in there that has made his blue eyes turn into icy, fractured glass under the front yard flood lights, backed by its own wave of silent annoyance that still, that he could ever, to Danny of all people.

"Nothing happened." He can't help feeling it goes off like a gun again. Just like the I can't.

No lead up and absolutely nothing else he can do to stop it or more important to have fall out, fast, hard, direct.

[haole_cop]

The edges of his lips pull up, a horrible hollow smile that's swallowing the horrible hollow feeling in his chest. One hand reaching up, thumbnail scraping lightly just above an eyebrow, leaning back on his heels, glancing away to point that smile and disbelief somewhere else, to some invisible person in on the bad joke that is his life. "Okay."

Hand moving back down, slipping into the too-tight pockets of his jeans, what was he thinking, jeans, his fingers are too square and thick to fit comfortably and it leaves his wrists torqued at too-sharp angles, fingers digging into the pockets up to the second joint.

Because it's almost laughable. Nothing happening. He's not sure he even knows what nothing might be, where the line gets drawn. When Steve had offered to let this, whatever it is, was, be simple. That it could be. Easy. Simple. Forgotten, if needed.

Except it can't, because Danny can't, so he probably should have made something up that first day and let Steve think he was over-reacting about something meaningless and left it at that, because at least he wouldn't be here, now, feeling like a gutted fish.

But it has, literally, never been nothing with Cath. Not since Danny's known him, and noticed that Cath is the only constant in his life. Away for long periods of time, but always back in the end. The idea that there was nothing this weekend -- and how long as she been here? Did Steve call her or did she just show up? -- is preposterous. And he should have figured. Did, even. Hearing her name in the car the other day. Knowing she's back on the island. Just like he should have figured that Rachel picked Stan once, so she would again. A year in Hawaii didn't magically change him into a better option.

Steve has picked Cath dozens of times. It only makes sense.

But Steve is saying nothing anyway, so Danny, from that bizarre floating place, agrees, and he's not even sure it's disbelief or sarcasm. It just is. He can accept it. He just needs to haul his head and heart and lungs and stomach back into place long enough to get through the hours until work, when the badge will do the rest.

[thebesteverseen]

That marionette smile comes out. The one where you can all but see the strings. It pulls across Danny's mouth, like having another rough-shod knife jabbed into his stomach. Danny's hand finding his own face, then his pockets, then pulling out again. Like nothing is working. How Danny says that single word, like it's the most pointless thing to every contain letters or sound.

Like it doesn't matter. No, like it couldn't possibly ever be true. Whether it's a joke, or whether they're just going to pretend Steve said it and meant it, no matter what else totally must have taken place behind that door. And Steve. He might deserve to be called on the fact it almost did. He almost let something happen. He could have. He felt something, regardless, that hadn't been sponged from his system.

But not this. He didn't do this.

He pushed away the one person who would have asked for nothing in return. Who jokes about his tally, and had for as long as he'd known her, and would as long as they knew each other. But would never actively put him on the spot and make him pay up. Would never demand or guilt him. He pushed away any sort of situation without strings.

Strings like these ones, wrapping tighter than snake around his wind pipe and jerking into a hard knot so far back he can't reach.

When the only thing in his mind, his hand, his chest is to step forward, hands finding Danny's shoulder, brows furrowing in an anger, only narrowly overriding his desperation, and only then by a beat or two, jerk him close, demand his attention, that Danny look at him, and forget to even control his face or his voice, how rough it comes out, with the hiss of oil on a burning pan, "I'm serious."

[haole_cop]

That's almost funny, too. Lining up neatly against his it's not a joke from last week. A week ago. Christ, a lot has happened this week, they should all get some kind of overtime or a month off, or something.

But Steve's hands are hard enough to hurt on his shoulders, which at least manages to choke any beginnings that might be the kind of laugh that would make him want to slap himself in the face, just to snap out of it. But he can't. What's the point? Should he be getting angry? He will later, he knows. He did before. Or will this just devolve into begging Steve to give him another chance, like he begged Rachel?

He hopes not. That really would put a crimp in their working days.

Steve tugs at him, makes him take an abrupt half step forward, closer, eyes forced to his face, and he looks pissed off. Frown digging deep, eyes wide and desperate, but it's like he's speaking Latin and it's just not translating, no matter how hard he's trying to communicate, and something tiny and frustrated and stinging pain blinks awake in Danny's chest. How is he supposed to believe it, okay? Already he wants to, and he knows he can't, is trying to pull back on himself, to keep from clambering back onto the cracking ice that just dumped him into this bottomless nothingness, but he's stupid, has always been stupid, it's his own damn fault if he falls off the cliff this time.

But because he's stupid, and because Steve is dragging him in close and his voice is so ragged and because some idiotic, treacherous part of himself wants, wants to believe it, he can feel the scattered pieces trying to press back into some kind of fractured whole. Fingertips clinging to the cliffside. Edging. Carefully. Like a trapdoor might spring any second and drop him again.

"What are you talking about?"

[thebesteverseen]

"What am I talking about?" It's a snap, worse than repeated accusation.

When his jaw wants to snap and the muscles through it, his chin, down his throat, into his shoulder nearly seize and Danny is jerked forward another inch. Because of that terrible emptiness and vast distance and easy, so easy it looks like it's relieving, agony in Danny's eyes, his face. With how it's wanting to look anywhere else but up at him, even when he is.

Because it is the only thing stopping him from shaking him for a moment. Because his hands are on Danny's shoulders, and Danny is only inches away -- and he's not there. He's somewhere far deeper, far further removed. Somewhere Steve's hands can't get. Somewhere his voice is barely reaching. Like he waited two days to realize Danny was already somewhere much further away than half the city and forty-eight to six hours away.

"I'm talking about you, barging into my house," He can't help the way the words fracture. Hard and harsh, like ice or glass shattering on the ground, even when they are getting tight and concise. "--without knocking, again--" Which is not the point, but he needs more words. More seconds. Not to feel like all of them aren't stopping Danny pulling away, more each each. "--and right back out the next second, like it was on fire."

When trying to maintain any decorum is beating on one side of his head. Especially because of Cath's voice still repeating that shocked question. Making him aware of the world outside, and the flood light, and neighbors, and cars, and everything. While the rest of him is fighting violently not to care. About his job, about propriety, about anything that is not Danny staring at him like touching him is even more painful.

"Whatever is going on inside that head of yours, it didn't happen." It didn't. Not last night. Not on the beach. Not at the top of either summit. Not on the couch. Not anywhere. Not anywhen. Not during anytime when they were renegotiating how to even be in the same space together. "Nothing happening." He's reaching, he knows he is when it's the same words. Choking his throat. The ones that didn't matter two seconds ago. and he needs better.

Same too little to cover too much. When it's anything. He needs to shove anything else out, anything else that might even get Danny's attention, make him believe it, that isn't marching in and dragging Cath out, and having her say it. And how much he couldn't do that. To her. "I told her it couldn't. I told her --"

Except so much is coming up blank. Because he hasn't told her much of anything at all.

And Cath, the great intelligence officer she is, she'd tried. Hard. In every situation. Oblique questions. Delicate prying fingers.

[haole_cop]

There's a decently large chunk of him that wishes Steve would just leave it alone. That he would stop trying, and just let it all fall.

It's a part even Danny hates, but he has to admit that it's been more reliable than any other facet of himself, and it wants to pull away as Steve tugs him forward, closer, like proximity is going to make these words make any more sense. They aren't supposed to. They aren't supposed to be happening at all. The most he might expect right now would be an apology, an explanation. Rachel so self-consciously holding herself back from twisting her wedding ring, her elaborate engagement ring, the one that wasn't from him, the single diamond that was all he could afford on his salary.

Nowhere does this scenario play out with Steve's fingers digging into his shoulders and Steve's voice digging into his brain, herding the broken pieces back together despite the way they turn and fight, struggling against the inexorable force trying to get them to believe those words. The ones that mean he's wrong, and everything's fine. As fine as it can be, this week, as fine as it can be with having no idea where they stand with each other, with no definitions and no boundaries. As fine as it can be when he's realizing that there's really nothing to say Steve can't be doing things with Cath, too, because they never actually set any ground rules. Have said nothing other than it's a not-casual thing, which means precisely jack squat.

No matter what words Steve is pushing into the air. And how they drop off, cut like a cord, after I told her it couldn't, that drops like a bomb in Danny's head and explodes in a silent, vicious expansion.

He told her. He told her. Steve did. Drew that line. Nothing happened. Not Steve's fingers in her silky dark hair. Not her mouth on his skin. Not her hands everywhere. Not the low groan deep in his throat, not unlike the sounds Danny feels like his brain is making, confused and almost painful.

It would be so much easier to not believe him, and just let it hurt. To give in to expectation. But he's blinking, and feeling like he's seeing Steve's face for the first time tonight, seeing the furrow in his forehead and the way that anger is masking something so like fear Danny almost gives up on himself again, because Steve is not scared of anything.

Except he's seen that expression before. Last week, right before Steve tattooed angry marks across his body, because Danny had been stupid and almost gotten himself killed, which Danny would like to remind Steve he does on a practically daily basis.

Glass cracking, letting in the howling of the wind, air, motion. "You actually are serious."

Edging towards something that looks terrifyingly like relief, and belief, like he's edging along the outside of a building towards a fire escape that looks rickety and rusted out, but still, maybe, maybe, usable.

[thebesteverseen]

Danny goes rigid, just a little more, Steve can feel it under the fingertips blunting themselves into Danny's shoulders and the back of his biceps, tops of the backs of shoulders. Before he's distracted. With the way Danny swallows, and suddenly he's looking at him. Danny is. Blinking a little and focusing, like maybe somehow he hasn't even been real the last minute.

When things are moving faster than Steve can label them in that blue. A weary desperation that he can't even pinpoint whether is a struggling birth of belief or need for that all, every one of his words, to have been a lie. When he seems to be regaining breathing and maybe seeing any part of the world. And Steve can't even listen to the part of his brain telling telling him they've already stepped off that cliff they're avoiding, and are hurtling in free-fall.

He can't hear anything except the slow, rusty words that leave Danny's throat. Real, but so small it's like he should be able to pick them up off the ground and hold all four, with a massive expanse of room still left, in the palm of his hand. When Danny's voice is in the wind, but it sounds real. The disbelief. The shaky want for belief.

When Steve lessens his grip on Danny's shoulders, but can't seem to make himself let go yet.

Even if Cath might be watching them through the blinds in the living room. Along with the rest of the world.

He just can't let go. Especially if he can't step in. Can't move his hands and capture the sides of his face, fingers in his hair, and just kiss all of this away, like it could. Like it could be. If he wasn't so aware of everything. Everyone. The bright lights. That don't matter. He's not looking away, mouth pursing a moment. Tongue at his bottom lip, trying to find words. Still stinging on several others said, and so not.

"Because right now this seems like such a great reason not to be?" Because there isn't. He couldn't. He'd never. He didn't. Because even at this second. When he really doesn't even stop the slightly sharper edge to his words. Meaning it, and filling a swoop as gravity sets in, without one drop, only one, of painful relief, while the rest is not yet. "Of course, I am."

He hasn't treated this anything but seriously, even if Danny's been gone and busy the whole weekend with other priorities.

It's the first time he's had. With another person in the room he couldn't detail to a job in another room or give half a day off to.

[haole_cop]

"Of course?"

It's not fair if it's not true. He just can't fight with Rachel and watch Chin through Malia's convalescence and lose Steve, too. Not when Steve was already so distant on Friday, when leaving him alone still hits as the worst possible choice to make. "Not that I want to think you're exaggerating, you know, but traditionally there has not really been any 'of course' about it, in my experience."

Because there's no of course about it. There is nothing about any of this that means Steve should choose him, and not Cath. That says Steve is willing to change everything Danny knows about him and his relationships, or lack thereof. And there is nothing in Danny's own past that even whispers that might be a possibility. Rachel left. Twice. And she'd promised a lot more than Steve's even gotten near. When he's made no promises at all, only looked helplessly, achingly happy when Danny told him it's definite possible that first night, all tangled up and naked on the couch. Only told him it's not a joke, but made stupid jokes about wedding bands when Danny told him to take a minute and consider. Re-consider.

But here he is saying it's true, with the sort of tight frustration that makes Danny think he's only barely reining himself in. Saying of course like there shouldn't be any question, like Danny's crazy for even thinking it.

He's not expecting the way something hangs, heavy and sharp, in his chest. Like it got caught on a parachute, and jerked violently back upright, sending the world into a dizzy, imperfect spin that pushes him back to earth with a sudden thudding stop.

He's serious. Steve is. He's wrong. Danny is. Wrong. The way his heart splattered all over the floor, like it slipped on a freshly mopped surface and slid into a wall, is wrong. Steve isn't lost. He's not gone. Whatever this is, that's already so deeply rooted in every inch of skin, slung to desperately by every cell of him, hasn't been taken away. He's not left alone with a voicemail and Steve not picking up at the other end, no matter how long he pleads or how frantically he begs.

The breath that rushes out feels like it deflates him entirely, like a balloon, flat and useless on Steve's lawn. Shaky and cautious. A hand lifting from where it had been hanging by his hip to scrub over his face as it tips down, away from Steve staring at him and about two seconds from carving the words into skin so Danny will believe them.

Fingers rubbing over mouth, eyes, forehead, carding back helplessly through hair, because maybe he's been an asshole and maybe he was wrong, but this catch is so unexpected that it feels like it still managed to break a few bones, even after saving him from splatting on the pavement. Relief so expansive it feels like he's drowning in it.

"Okay." Again. But different. Not like an easy agreement, like he'll pretend to believe Steve. And he's still not totally sure he does believe Steve, but he sure as hell wants to. Thinks even most of him does. "Jesus." He feels like he's been punched all over. "Okay, I believe you."

Because it's as much him being willing as it is Steve being convincing, right?

[thebesteverseen]

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?"

[haole_cop]

"Oh, no, I definitely vote for out here." Hand lifting, to point at the ground, embarrassed color still fighting to flood into his face. Okay. So he's an asshole. But he's an asshole who would like to mitigate this damage, if at all possible.

Outside is nowhere near Catherine. Outside is far away from the vertigo-inducing door. Outside is fine. Outside is great. And it's not like he's scared of Catherine, but, really, he is a little scared of Catherine. "Or, better yet, how about I go home and let you finish your evening in peace, because I clearly do not have my head on straight."

Jumping to conclusions, no matter how justified they might be, isn't a good look. Bolting from Steve's living room in front of Catherine definitely isn't a good look, and the annoyance in Steve's tone isn't convincing him things will exactly be copacetic. What would that even be like? Are he and Catherine going to sit there and make small talk for an hour or so before someone leaves or they are all crushed under a flaming meteor of awkwardness? Or she might be actively angry at him. Them. The situation.

No. There is no good ending to this scenario, so it's better to cut his losses and drag his sorry ass back to the empty apartment, where he can sit down and have a long hard talk with himself about this reaction. That is so much more than a reaction. That still has him feeling flattened and aching. When just the thought that he'd lost Steve, and this, without being there, without being able to put up any kind of fight, was so breathtakingly painful it was like staying conscious through being hit by a car and falling off a roof.

He doesn't want to think about it, which is exactly why he needs to, because if he's going to fall apart over this, he needs to know what he's getting into. Too late to try and pull away, but this is insanity, this is crazy, that felt like dying, like being shot, and he doesn't think there's any coming back from breaking open a third time.

[thebesteverseen]

For the first, even without loosening up, it feels like his chest opens, watching Danny draw out a hand and start pointing at the long walkway between the gate and the door their standing on. For that one, he's not entirely sure he disagrees. He doesn't know what will happen on the other side of that door, or this door in his friendship with Catherine.

For the second, Steve is just going to stare for a second, like he's sure he has to have heard that wrong. Blink, and tilt his head, and no. Danny is still following up that sentence opener with more words. Talking about going away from here. From him. Now.

"You want to leave now?" The words shoot out of his mouth into the warm Hawaii evening.

A smatter of sharp surprised suspicious and disbelief, and he doesn't even know if the emphasis is more on want, asking if this is what Danny wants, or on now, after this, all of this. When Steve already stopped him once. This, thing, Steve can't even classify. Where it literally looked like the light and life was utterly gone from Danny. Like they'd jumped a year back.

And somehow he did that. Details and assumptions unmitigated. But he did that. To Danny. Slapped that face that made him want to flash bomb Edward's house, call the other two a loss, grab Gracie and run, if it would be anything to spark life back into Danny. He did that. Somehow. Him. Now. Here. Which is too big. Too hard.

It's not even not throwing file cases at his partner's head for lying and then punishing him for being too willing to do anything to bring his plane home. It's something entirely else. Because it'd taken so much effort not to hate the person who put it there, who did chose Danny. And he shouldn't --

Shouldn't even be capable of doing that.

This, all of this, shouldn't matter that much. He shouldn't. This whole week. For fucks sake, even Doris proved that. This week. First with a door, and then with a plane, and Danny is still standing there, like an awkward teenager who'd rather run away than come any closer. Especially now that it looks like he's done having the first panic attack Steve never had in the list of which ones to expect coming someday soon.

Which, really does not mean, he has to play along with the game where Danny wants to back away from his house, from him, still. He already did it once, right? He can just look unimpressed that Danny thinks that running away was anywhere in the options Steve set out a second ago.

"Or you could, suck it up, be an adult, and -- I don't know, Danny -- stay." Is sort of firm, without actually having any extra biting insult than anything he threw at Danny's head in a normal given day. Except that the option is phrased without a question mark attached to it this time. "There are still some more shish kebabs and Longboards in the kitchen." Even if he hasn't moved toward the door.

Even if he isn't sure he will, can. Not if Danny decides to actually go the other way, toward the camaro.

Fine. Danny showed up unannounced, had a great freak out, slashed his character without basis.




That doesn't mean he has the right to get to walk away from here. From him.

[haole_cop]

He makes a face at that, the last part, because he has been an adult all weekend long, all week, is the adult in most of his day-to-day interactions with Steve because Steve is more often than not a twelve-year-old with the ability to carry and use large guns. In some ways, he's pretty sure the adult thing to do would be to apologize and make himself scarce, because he has ruined their night enough already and he's not exactly champing at the bit to do more of it, or to subject himself to the level of awkwardness it will entail.

He's still not sure it's a bad idea, but Steve looks as taken aback as if Danny had told him the last ten minutes were a false alarm and he doesn't care if Steve sleeps with Catherine or anyone else. Like the thought had actually not crossed his mind. Making Danny rub his forehead, where a headache is starting to throb, other hand lifting to his hip. Wishing he had a button down, and dress pants, and loafers. Wishing he could cling to the thin veneer of professionalism, instead of these weekend clothes, sneakers, making him feel even less prepared to face the music.

"Fine." Maybe it shouldn't be so begrudging, but Steve is irritated and Danny is feeling like something that got scraped off the highway and tossed into the woods, and Catherine --

Well. "So she knows? Everything?"

Glancing at Steve for confirmation, even though he's already pretty sure what the answer will be. Steve said he told her he couldn't, and then Danny left without being able to answer her question, and Catherine is a smart lady. He's pretty sure she can put that kind of puzzle together, and he wishes there were a way to brush his reaction off, but he's pulling a blank, because there isn't. There is no reason a friend of Steve's would come so undone just by seeing another friend of Steve's who Steve occasionally sleeps with, unless that first friend...

This is getting convoluted, and too heavy, but let it never be said Danny Williams didn't face the goddamn firing squad when he deserved it, so he just shakes his head and starts heading past Steve, back towards the house. Without pausing, lifting the hand from his hip to wrap fingers around Steve's wrist, just like a. Like a touchstone. Like he needs it, in order to face down whatever's coming, and he does, because it's only been like a week and a half and they've kept it quiet from everyone. He's got no idea what it's going to be like, being in the same room as someone who knows.

It makes the whole thing seem so much more real. Suddenly a color photo, instead of black and white.

His fingers only stay there a second, before he's moving on, but it helps. As much as anything might. "Alright, fine, but it's your fault if she shoots me, is all I'm saying."

[thebesteverseen]

"She does now." There's a heayy sort of exasperation there, that might imply that certain things had been left out of her original informing, of any of the one-sentence answers she's gotten drug out of him today, that have all fallen by the wayside between Danny opening and her shooing Steve out of his own house with the same force that she'd give her first startled reaction.

He thinks he's about to hear the same words he's thrown at himself in the mirror, except this time from someone else who's opinion of him, both on the clock and off of it, actually matters. The kind of actually matter that leaves him having no idea what she'll say.

The thought tatters a little when Danny's fingers loop his wrist and pull him, almost teetering in surprise, toward his front door.

Warm little cuff that literally makes his heart gives a spike of sensation so dramatic and winded and warm, it's almost nearly painful, too. So that when he's looking over at Danny because of it. The thoughts and the touch and Danny's skittish expression, like Steve's about to dodge into oncoming fire, or a head on collision with a gate and the camaro, and drag Danny right along.

Everyone fell into someone else's bunk sometime. That was a given.

You tried to keep it to people outside of two up, two down in ranks. You tried even harder to keep it either back home with your spouse, or with people in ports, if you didn't have anything that amount to a 'back there.' But ninety percent of time, everyone fell into someone's bunk that screwed the lines somewhere, at least once. Boats, and even mission teams, were only so big.

But you didn't let it have a face life, and you didn't let it get in the way of duty, and you didn't let it become real.

Your bunk was one thing. This was....

This was Danny, with his fingers looped, every molecule in Steve's body leaning toward that space, listening like it was speaking. Danny, who was still going to be his partner in the morning, whose paper he signed, whose court dates he'd have to know about, who he might have to testify on. Danny. Who he still wanted, more than anything, to pull into him, warm, and solid, and blunt it out. Not the anger. Not even the Danny's delirious, insulting assumptions.

That cold that slipped into him. For one shining second as the door slammed. That made it feel like every second he'd thought he couldn't breathe before that point was a cleverly dramatic parallel to what it suddenly felt like not to be able to pull air into his lungs at all. Like the whole world could black out on a finite point, losing Danny and Cath in one, too long, too fragile, second.

Except then the fingers let go, and Steve straightened his spine, his shoulders, looking over with an unimpressed, unconcerned, press of his lips -- but at least it has stopped being pointedly sharp. "I'm still the ranking officer here, and I'm not about to give either of you the permission to discharge a firearm in my house."

[haole_cop]

"Me? I am not going to shoot anybody."

His fingers already itch to go back to Steve's wrist, to find his arm, his back, his shoulder. Get him solid under his hands, so he can convince himself Steve really did come out here, and Danny isn't having some kind of psychotic break. He doesn't; instead, that hand and the other one skate out in front of him, fingers lining up together, sectioning off his points like he's lifting imaginary boxes. "I am not the one with a gun on my hip, despite the fact that it is Sunday night and I am in my own home. What, are you expecting some housebreaker to decide today is a good day to start working Sundays and hit the home of a Navy SEAL?"

He feels a little better, a little steadier with every word, and every washing motion of his hands, waving in the air like he's got to clear the path of some invisible cloud before they can walk through it. Back to brash bravado, like it might just smooth over any memories of the way he'd wandered, not ten minutes ago, as lost as a dog off its leash. Like he might be able to forget the way Steve kept coming after him, the way his name got choked off halfway through being said. When Danny couldn't even say Steve's. Or much of anything at all.

Too sure it was all done. Gone. Already. Barely had, already lost. A still panicked, fluttering beat, pushed far down, like a caught bird trying to get past glass.

Nothing that can be dealt with here and now, and it's not like he can reach for Steve's arm or wrist with Cath right there, so he keeps his hands to himself, just opens the door instead, experiencing a rapid sucking deja vu that lends the tiniest of pauses, and trepidation. Just a settling of his shoulders, before he's heading into the house, where, after a quick look, Cath is nowhere to be seen.

He half turns to glance at Steve, eyebrows up, but there's a clattering sound from the kitchen and he realizes she'd brought the empty plates back there.

Unwinding one knot of tension, creating another, but he just looks at Steve. "You said there's Longboards?"

Talk about being able to use a beer.

[thebesteverseen]

The whole beginning part gets a roll of his eyes as the flood lights and dark shadows outside of it, all the tables and chairs, high trees and dense dark spots, vanish for the warm yellow-white light of the porch and then, following Danny in, the even softer white light of the living room. Which happens to be empty.

It furrows his eyebrows, making him glance toward the stairs, listening. Coming back down and just catching Danny's eyes before the sounds from the kitchen comes. When at least it puts her not far from where he'd left her. Having to remember he just up and left her, whether it was at her exasperated, thread bare, encouragement. When he's still looking toward that doorway, when Danny's question is hitting his ears.

"Yeah. Top shelf." Which a little distracted, when he's already walking toward the doorway and the kitchen.

Even steps, broad shoulders, and no idea what sensible hesitation before a round of bullets or a firing squad would ever be. It isn't part of him, and there's no point hanging back. She'll have heard the door. The house is too quiet, which is when he notices the TV's been turned off. She'd definitely have heard the door. There's no point in putting it off.

It's not even that many steps away. How many times in the last two weeks has he mapped it? The walk from here to there. The fumble of bodies and clothes, without being willing to even look up or think about them. The steps between the bedroom and the beach and the kitchen and back up before work. That brings him shortly to Cath, from the back.

Long shining dark hair falling through half of her back, that offsets the brilliant purple shirt across her shoulders.

The shoulders that are anything but easy, and he's known her long enough to see it. Just in how she's standing. The way she does when she's stuck with something, or challenged. He gave a glance at the ceiling, not even really waiting to see if Danny had followed him or waited behind.

Stepping in, with easy sort of even, "You didn't have to do that," that might be just as much as announcement of not avoiding her or any of this, as the door was. It wasn't like he wanted them all camped out rooms apart, even if he had no idea what would happen with them both in one space. How he was supposed to do, say...anything.

[gonna_owe_me]

It's actually not all that long, but enough time passes that she starts seriously considering leaving through the back door and walking along the beach until she can hack her way through someone's yard.

It might not be such a bad idea, to be gone when they come back inside. If they come back inside. If Steve manages to convince Danny that this definitely wasn't what it looked like and hasn't been, all weekend. With the second question being whether she wants to be here.

She's not sure she does. Aside from shoving Steve at the door, she's not sure she's gotten her head wrapped around the idea yet, or started feeling any better about it. If anything, the time to think makes her even more concerned, which is what pushes her to start clearing plates and empty bottles. Just to get up, to move, and consider the implications of slapping an officer who outranks her, even if he's technically Reserves and they aren't serving together.

Of all the stupid things to do, falling in love with his partner -- or falling into bed with his partner, or whatever this is, dating or sleeping together or... doesn't know, whatever -- has got to take the cake. It was bad enough thinking it might be Kono, but Danny. He is with Danny all the time. They're partners, and Danny is probably his best friend. He talks about him, and his daughter, as much as or more than he talks about himself.

She had no idea Danny even swung that way.

She feels guilty, a little. Not being able to immediately be a hundred percent behind it. Not being able to just jump in as support, like a friend should. But a friend should also be able to voice her concerns, and she's going to, will, definitely.

But tonight may not be the time to do it.

Not when the door opens and closes, and Steve comes into the kitchen, with Danny nearby, and she sees how wary he looks, Danny, staying near the wall, walking to the fridge with an overly exaggerated swing of arms and shoulders, like a cat puffing itself up in front of a threatening predator. It's a shame -- she likes Danny, but when she smiles at him, his eyes drop, a mix of guilt and embarrassment and an overly casual attention to taking the cap off the bottle he grabs.

So she turns her attention on Steve, the room feeling a little cooler. Herself a little more reserved. "No need to clutter up your living room. Hey, Danny. I'm glad you decided to stick around."

He leans against the counter, lifts the bottle in greeting. "Nice to see they let you on land, every now and again."

She smiles. "If I'm very good."

For a second, it seems like maybe they'll be able to get past this and be friends, but then he glances at Steve, and she notes how carefully far away from him he is, and she's not sure whether she wants to shove them towards each other or smack them both upside the head more. It's a warring sort of emotion.