The house is quiet, clean, comfortable in that old-fashioned way it always has been, with the little curtain-thing over the kitchen window that Steve can't possibly like, must just be used to, and the counters wiped down, the sink empty, because God Forbid the Navy should ever show up out of the blue and glove-test the place for dust or dirt.
Which is mumbled out loud to himself and the silent kitchen as he relieves the pack in the fridge of another beer, swinging the door shut and blinking in the lack of light as he finds a bottle opener, snapping the cap off and tossing it in the trash.
And maybe his eyes track back towards the lanai, the yard, the stretch of calm, open ocean which Steve is watching -- not intently, if the set of his shoulders is anything to go by, but with absorption. He'd barely glanced over when Danny first arrived, and that's not so weird, but maybe the quiet of the house isn't the only thing that feels too settled, around here.
He heads back out, stride swinging, easy and firm, meanders his way to the empty chair, to sit down and take a sip, cold bubbles bursting on his tongue, citrusy and with a faint warm wash of spice, leans back, and lets himself take an idle glance over his shoulder.
At Steve.
Steve, who hasn't moved, or said anything. Sitting there staring out at the water like he expects it to do -- who knows. Something. Vomit the sun back up into the sky, or suddenly freeze over. But like it wouldn't surprise him, anyway, because he's not there. Watching the water. Right now. It might as well be a screensaver for all the interest it seems to hold, and Steve's got that pre-occupied, inward look to his eyes that's an invitation for warning bells to start ringing, for that tiny needling voice to start whispering.
"Hey," he says, shifting, bottle landing on his thigh, where he holds it, light. "Don't talk my ear off, okay, I can only take in so much at any one time."
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Which is mumbled out loud to himself and the silent kitchen as he relieves the pack in the fridge of another beer, swinging the door shut and blinking in the lack of light as he finds a bottle opener, snapping the cap off and tossing it in the trash.
And maybe his eyes track back towards the lanai, the yard, the stretch of calm, open ocean which Steve is watching -- not intently, if the set of his shoulders is anything to go by, but with absorption. He'd barely glanced over when Danny first arrived, and that's not so weird, but maybe the quiet of the house isn't the only thing that feels too settled, around here.
He heads back out, stride swinging, easy and firm, meanders his way to the empty chair, to sit down and take a sip, cold bubbles bursting on his tongue, citrusy and with a faint warm wash of spice, leans back, and lets himself take an idle glance over his shoulder.
At Steve.
Steve, who hasn't moved, or said anything. Sitting there staring out at the water like he expects it to do -- who knows. Something. Vomit the sun back up into the sky, or suddenly freeze over. But like it wouldn't surprise him, anyway, because he's not there. Watching the water. Right now. It might as well be a screensaver for all the interest it seems to hold, and Steve's got that pre-occupied, inward look to his eyes that's an invitation for warning bells to start ringing, for that tiny needling voice to start whispering.
"Hey," he says, shifting, bottle landing on his thigh, where he holds it, light. "Don't talk my ear off, okay, I can only take in so much at any one time."