Steve doesn't deflect well. It's a little like watching him tossing a grenade at a mini-golf course, just to keep the ball from going in the hole, because he'll slide straight past whatever the actual pertinent point is, and -- what, assume he can just distract Danny by mocking him?
If that were true, they'd never get anything done, though Danny would be the first to admit that there are times when, heavy-handed a tactic as it is, it actually works.
But those are times when they have other things to concentrate on: cases, or immediate personal tragedy of the kind Steve has actively avoided talking about. It's anyone's bet what happened between Doris and Wo Fat in that room, but even a month without her isn't long enough for even the most stable of people to wrap their heads around the idea that their mother, dead for twenty years, has actually been alive and well the whole time. And Steve -- Steve doesn't deal with things. He locks them up in neat little boxes and stores them in his bunker, and keeps going, and that was probably all well and good for the SEALs, but he's in a messier world, now, and Danny's not sure those boxes are doing such a bang-up job of staying airtight and sealed away.
Or if they should be, at all.
"So there's another reason why you're stoically contemplating the waves on this fine Sunday evening? You know they probably won't spontaneously evaporate into steam under the force of your stare, right?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
branchandroot
(no subject)
Date: 2013-04-24 03:29 am (UTC)Steve doesn't deflect well. It's a little like watching him tossing a grenade at a mini-golf course, just to keep the ball from going in the hole, because he'll slide straight past whatever the actual pertinent point is, and -- what, assume he can just distract Danny by mocking him?
If that were true, they'd never get anything done, though Danny would be the first to admit that there are times when, heavy-handed a tactic as it is, it actually works.
But those are times when they have other things to concentrate on: cases, or immediate personal tragedy of the kind Steve has actively avoided talking about. It's anyone's bet what happened between Doris and Wo Fat in that room, but even a month without her isn't long enough for even the most stable of people to wrap their heads around the idea that their mother, dead for twenty years, has actually been alive and well the whole time. And Steve -- Steve doesn't deal with things. He locks them up in neat little boxes and stores them in his bunker, and keeps going, and that was probably all well and good for the SEALs, but he's in a messier world, now, and Danny's not sure those boxes are doing such a bang-up job of staying airtight and sealed away.
Or if they should be, at all.
"So there's another reason why you're stoically contemplating the waves on this fine Sunday evening? You know they probably won't spontaneously evaporate into steam under the force of your stare, right?"
The hand that's not holding his beer gestures towards the water instead, and he leans forward, getting a better angle to watch Steve's face, because he's not wrong, there's something there, he knew it even before Steve tried any attempt at entirely transparent deflection. It's written in the line of his shoulders, the easy blasé regard, bland non-interest. "What's on your mind?"