Easy. Just like that. Like there's no question, and even though they see each other all the freaking time, Steve still wants him to come over...or, at least, is okay with him being there, which. Danny will take what he can get, and that mention of the mostly-full six pack is about as close to an engraved invitation as McGarrett gets.
So he swings into the turning lane, hits the blinker, takes the next left that will take him to Steve's place instead of his own, and tries not to think too hard about how the car suddenly feels less close, how the radio is a friendly white noise instead of a disembodied and lonely voice. He puts the phone down in the console, and doesn't feel the need to immediately pick it back up, call Steve, call Grace, call Kono or Chin or Kamekona, because at least he's not headed back to his shoebox apartment to pick at leftover take-out and hate his ex-wife a little more with every cold lo mein noodle.
It's only been a month. But it's not...this, that he's going for. Not only. Right? He's spent plenty of evenings with Steve, always had, well before this got started, well before any of it happened at all, and this is just an extension of it. A chance to unwind, before their 9-to-5 gets shot to hell, like it does every week, and the entire concept of a weekend goes out the window. And there's nothing wrong with that, with just wanting to see him, talk to him. Find out what he did with himself. Pry him out of the dead airspace that is wondering about Doris, about Wo Fat, because Steve's been by himself, presumably, and frankly, having time to sit and think is maybe not the best thing for him, in this particular instance, with this particular situation.
He's about ten minutes out, turns the radio up and lowers the AC; the sun's going down, smearing the skyline with bonfire shades, and the temperature is dropping to something almost like hospitable, and it's quiet as he heads through town, towards the water, towards the quiet street with the houses set so far back, lining the beach and the little shell-curves of coves. Fingers tapping on the wheel. Foot carefully not pressing too hard on the gas.
There's no rush. He tells himself that, every time he makes a turn and something clutches gently in his stomach, telling him to go faster. He ignores it.
(Mostly.)
So it's turning to thick dusk by the time he pulls up, gets out, jangle of keys loud in the quiet, and he doesn't bother going inside, just heads around the house to the back, the lanai and the curving stretch of lawn, shoes soft on the grass, hands pushing into his pockets. "Yo."
Steve's there, in his chair, and Danny stands for a second, considering, before jerking a thumb at the house, heading in to grab a bottle of his own. "One sec, and I'll get on the same page."
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branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-04-23 10:34 pm (UTC)Easy. Just like that. Like there's no question, and even though they see each other all the freaking time, Steve still wants him to come over...or, at least, is okay with him being there, which. Danny will take what he can get, and that mention of the mostly-full six pack is about as close to an engraved invitation as McGarrett gets.
So he swings into the turning lane, hits the blinker, takes the next left that will take him to Steve's place instead of his own, and tries not to think too hard about how the car suddenly feels less close, how the radio is a friendly white noise instead of a disembodied and lonely voice. He puts the phone down in the console, and doesn't feel the need to immediately pick it back up, call Steve, call Grace, call Kono or Chin or Kamekona, because at least he's not headed back to his shoebox apartment to pick at leftover take-out and hate his ex-wife a little more with every cold lo mein noodle.
It's only been a month. But it's not...this, that he's going for. Not only. Right? He's spent plenty of evenings with Steve, always had, well before this got started, well before any of it happened at all, and this is just an extension of it. A chance to unwind, before their 9-to-5 gets shot to hell, like it does every week, and the entire concept of a weekend goes out the window. And there's nothing wrong with that, with just wanting to see him, talk to him. Find out what he did with himself. Pry him out of the dead airspace that is wondering about Doris, about Wo Fat, because Steve's been by himself, presumably, and frankly, having time to sit and think is maybe not the best thing for him, in this particular instance, with this particular situation.
He's about ten minutes out, turns the radio up and lowers the AC; the sun's going down, smearing the skyline with bonfire shades, and the temperature is dropping to something almost like hospitable, and it's quiet as he heads through town, towards the water, towards the quiet street with the houses set so far back, lining the beach and the little shell-curves of coves. Fingers tapping on the wheel. Foot carefully not pressing too hard on the gas.
There's no rush. He tells himself that, every time he makes a turn and something clutches gently in his stomach, telling him to go faster. He ignores it.
(Mostly.)
So it's turning to thick dusk by the time he pulls up, gets out, jangle of keys loud in the quiet, and he doesn't bother going inside, just heads around the house to the back, the lanai and the curving stretch of lawn, shoes soft on the grass, hands pushing into his pockets. "Yo."
Steve's there, in his chair, and Danny stands for a second, considering, before jerking a thumb at the house, heading in to grab a bottle of his own. "One sec, and I'll get on the same page."