It's still there, of course. Not that he expects it not to be. Given it was there through his childhood. And it was mockingly fine when he returned to the scene of his father's murder, after his funeral, finding it entirely the same for all the other changes the world had undergone in all those years.
It had gotten under his skin like a breaking splinter. Not that day, but more the next one. After he'd taken over the case, commandeered a command and people to suit his purposes. It'd been his, and Mary's so there wasn't really anywhere to go. He could have gone to Pearl for base housing, but it was standing there and it was his responsibility, too.
He'd fixed it up, the way it should have been at least ten years earlier. Did the kind of weekly upkeep houses that old had to have. Had gone from it every morning only to come back to him every night. Somewhere along the way it had gotten even more under his skin. Without his knowing. The kind of under his skin that made him feel the tension in his forehead and around his eyes the only awareness almost every time he looked at it he was glaring.
Like it had gotten in. He'd let it. Get inside him and, somehow, it had betrayed him. Them. All of them. Like it should have known. They should have known. It should have been written on the walls. She was alive, fine, somewhere else. While the whole world here fell apart over her death.
While it was standing there, fine. Past, present, future. Untouchable. Grating like those slivers of splinters can find a way to gouge into most of his skin. Every time he parks the truck and makes his way through that lawn, made of flowers and shadows. Tables and gently level, soft, green grass. Idyllic and untouched. Except by the lawn mower. Except by too many childhood memories of living out here.
Every one of them a lie that didn't know what was coming. Every one of them a lie that never knew what happened. The way he still didn't feel he had any idea what happened. Aside from to him, to his father, to his sister.
Mary, who he couldn't even talk to and who it kept turning over and over that he needed to.
It's easier when the place isn't empty. When Danny is here, or the rest of the team, and there's too much noise. Too much noise to drown out the memories clogging up every single square foot of space with over thirty years of history. He shouldn't be using them for that. Or him. And if Cath's words about the cost of that come back, standing in a ruin that looks pristinely organized, it's not to her detriment.
He looked around the living room only a few second before heading for the kitchen and grabbing another beer, uncertain if it was because he needed it or was about to. Taking it and leaving the house the opposite direction, straight through. Watching the ocean roll in and out, as the bottle sung by it's neck from between his first two fingers, next to his leg.
Blue and endless. Except for the shore. Which picked at the part of him that never could let go entirely of the shore being there. The way water should be in every direction. That he pushed at, trying to find the thread that he knew had been him laughing only twenty or thirty minutes ago, but it's fallen through the grits of sand and it seems only further away the more he tried to find it.
Giving him a chair to drop in to, and glance at his watch for how many hours there are until work again.
He set the Longboard by the front leg of the chair and watched the waves. Not moving from them. The endless in and out, the way every part of the water was always moving on the top, no matter how still, serene, and static it could feel deep under water, here, the waves ran into each other, swallowed and eaten and endlessly rippling.
Light and shadows, caught and thrown everywhere. The end of the sun shattered and splintered and held by them. Every color from orange to white, to silvers and golds, blacks and grey even in that blue when night played on it better than any piece of music or art could capture. Building him up. Filling him slow, as it was coming closer. The whole reason.
The things he does not actually want to think about anymore than he already has. Thought of, or defend that he had thought of. When his shoulders are rising and falling, not incredibly loosely against the back of one of his chairs, still put out as a set, showcasing the empty space he can no more not think of than find himself tripping over everywhere. But doesn't want to.
Because he already knows what the answer should be. And what they both said last time. And how this topic is entirely different. It's the end game of every single other one out there.
So maybe he's taking his time, trying not to picture Grace and Kono shrieking in the gentle waves of the tiny beach, with one long surf board and another, small and pink, and Danny watching them. Complaining the whole time, but smiling and bragging like it was winning The Cup when Grace could stand up for whole half minutes before falling down, again.
Trying not to think, not to see Cath points, the one he's never blinded himself to the truth of, when he phone rang in his pocket, vibrating the cloth, and dragging him, thankfully, gratefully, out out. Making him twist and dig in a pocket for it, wondering if it's work, even vaguely hoping. Then, almost shake his head when it's got Danny William in thick block letters. Because where else would Danny be when Steve is trying not to think of him and failing already.
He tapped the button with a finger, and leaned back more, stretching the muscles between his shoulders across his neck and the bottom of his head harder. "McGarrett."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-04-23 04:12 pm (UTC)It had gotten under his skin like a breaking splinter. Not that day, but more the next one. After he'd taken over the case, commandeered a command and people to suit his purposes. It'd been his, and Mary's so there wasn't really anywhere to go. He could have gone to Pearl for base housing, but it was standing there and it was his responsibility, too.
He'd fixed it up, the way it should have been at least ten years earlier. Did the kind of weekly upkeep houses that old had to have. Had gone from it every morning only to come back to him every night. Somewhere along the way it had gotten even more under his skin. Without his knowing. The kind of under his skin that made him feel the tension in his forehead and around his eyes the only awareness almost every time he looked at it he was glaring.
Like it had gotten in. He'd let it. Get inside him and, somehow, it had betrayed him. Them. All of them.
Like it should have known. They should have known. It should have been written on the walls.
She was alive, fine, somewhere else. While the whole world here fell apart over her death.
While it was standing there, fine. Past, present, future. Untouchable. Grating like those slivers of splinters can find a way to gouge into most of his skin. Every time he parks the truck and makes his way through that lawn, made of flowers and shadows. Tables and gently level, soft, green grass. Idyllic and untouched. Except by the lawn mower. Except by too many childhood memories of living out here.
Every one of them a lie that didn't know what was coming. Every one of them a lie that never knew what happened.
The way he still didn't feel he had any idea what happened. Aside from to him, to his father, to his sister.
Mary, who he couldn't even talk to and who it kept turning over and over that he needed to.
It's easier when the place isn't empty. When Danny is here, or the rest of the team, and there's too much noise. Too much noise to drown out the memories clogging up every single square foot of space with over thirty years of history. He shouldn't be using them for that. Or him. And if Cath's words about the cost of that come back, standing in a ruin that looks pristinely organized, it's not to her detriment.
He looked around the living room only a few second before heading for the kitchen and grabbing another beer, uncertain if it was because he needed it or was about to. Taking it and leaving the house the opposite direction, straight through. Watching the ocean roll in and out, as the bottle sung by it's neck from between his first two fingers, next to his leg.
Blue and endless. Except for the shore. Which picked at the part of him that never could let go entirely of the shore being there. The way water should be in every direction. That he pushed at, trying to find the thread that he knew had been him laughing only twenty or thirty minutes ago, but it's fallen through the grits of sand and it seems only further away the more he tried to find it.
Giving him a chair to drop in to, and glance at his watch for how many hours there are until work again.
He set the Longboard by the front leg of the chair and watched the waves. Not moving from them. The endless in and out, the way every part of the water was always moving on the top, no matter how still, serene, and static it could feel deep under water, here, the waves ran into each other, swallowed and eaten and endlessly rippling.
Light and shadows, caught and thrown everywhere. The end of the sun shattered and splintered and held by them. Every color from orange to white, to silvers and golds, blacks and grey even in that blue when night played on it better than any piece of music or art could capture. Building him up. Filling him slow, as it was coming closer. The whole reason.
The things he does not actually want to think about anymore than he already has. Thought of, or defend that he had thought of. When his shoulders are rising and falling, not incredibly loosely against the back of one of his chairs, still put out as a set, showcasing the empty space he can no more not think of than find himself tripping over everywhere. But doesn't want to.
Because he already knows what the answer should be. And what they both said last time.
And how this topic is entirely different. It's the end game of every single other one out there.
So maybe he's taking his time, trying not to picture Grace and Kono shrieking in the gentle waves of the tiny beach, with one long surf board and another, small and pink, and Danny watching them. Complaining the whole time, but smiling and bragging like it was winning The Cup when Grace could stand up for whole half minutes before falling down, again.
Trying not to think, not to see Cath points, the one he's never blinded himself to the truth of, when he phone rang in his pocket, vibrating the cloth, and dragging him, thankfully, gratefully, out out. Making him twist and dig in a pocket for it, wondering if it's work, even vaguely hoping. Then, almost shake his head when it's got Danny William in thick block letters. Because where else would Danny be when Steve is trying not to think of him and failing already.
He tapped the button with a finger, and leaned back more, stretching the muscles between his shoulders across his neck and the bottom of his head harder. "McGarrett."