Because it was a worthy question. He even felt some sympathy for her response. He understands. Every time he came back, even this last time it was like that. The last one hadn't been a boat. But it'd been a singularly determined mission, calling on other national groups, hopping across countries and oceans. It felt more normal that he was even allowed to admit.
He got it. The whole idea. Still felt it now, even a just over a month after getting back, again.
At least he had been until Cath's cool question, slender triplicate of words, slammed a wrecking ball into his chest. Making him glad that the whole idea of not breathing was one he'd been train, long ago, out of panicking in the face of. Making him glad that beer wasn't in his hand, he wasn't trying to swallow anything. Because the thing slams into his ribs, crushing bones, and lodging.
While she's cleverly making some joke, like it wasn't actually asked with any sincerity but diversionary tactic, an insinuation that it was to keep her from this question. When he doesn't do it the favor of giving it any more actually shock than he'd given a sudden explosion. Brows furrowing and pushing inward, pinching the skin between them. Unimpressed under the thinnest shade of flat dismissive. "He isn't my boyfriend."
The word comes out even when it burns. Even when it feels like it's scraping the nerves from his spine and the feeling from his lungs. Because he isn't, and that's probably the least likely of the places he thought she'd start. Because they aren't. They work together during the day, and then.
And then just keeps happening. One or the other them makes a comment. Something small. A question about seeing the other person later. Beers, or dinners, once there was a game replay, and something else about case rehashing. That really just all ends up the same. With laughing, and hands everywhere, and the sound of Danny breathing filling up his room, his ears, some over warm part of his skin.
But it wasn't that. None of this was. Nothing that Danny has said even implied he'd wanted it to be.
It was complicated enough, just beneath impossible already, without even considering throw things like that at it.
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-03-27 01:14 am (UTC)Because it was a worthy question. He even felt some sympathy for her response. He understands. Every time he came back, even this last time it was like that. The last one hadn't been a boat. But it'd been a singularly determined mission, calling on other national groups, hopping across countries and oceans. It felt more normal that he was even allowed to admit.
He got it. The whole idea. Still felt it now, even a just over a month after getting back, again.
At least he had been until Cath's cool question, slender triplicate of words, slammed a wrecking ball into his chest. Making him glad that the whole idea of not breathing was one he'd been train, long ago, out of panicking in the face of. Making him glad that beer wasn't in his hand, he wasn't trying to swallow anything. Because the thing slams into his ribs, crushing bones, and lodging.
While she's cleverly making some joke, like it wasn't actually asked with any sincerity but diversionary tactic, an insinuation that it was to keep her from this question. When he doesn't do it the favor of giving it any more actually shock than he'd given a sudden explosion. Brows furrowing and pushing inward, pinching the skin between them. Unimpressed under the thinnest shade of flat dismissive. "He isn't my boyfriend."
The word comes out even when it burns. Even when it feels like it's scraping the nerves from his spine and the feeling from his lungs. Because he isn't, and that's probably the least likely of the places he thought she'd start. Because they aren't. They work together during the day, and then.
And then just keeps happening. One or the other them makes a comment. Something small. A question about seeing the other person later. Beers, or dinners, once there was a game replay, and something else about case rehashing. That really just all ends up the same. With laughing, and hands everywhere, and the sound of Danny breathing filling up his room, his ears, some over warm part of his skin.
But it wasn't that. None of this was. Nothing that Danny has said even implied he'd wanted it to be.
It was complicated enough, just beneath impossible already, without even considering throw things like that at it.