He considers it a positive sign when Steve gets irritated enough to snap at him, self-defeating as it might seem. He's always done it; poked and prodded until Steve dropped the robot act and lashed out like a human, angry at being dragged out from under his safe walls, reluctant and pissed off from his bunker, every time it was obvious to everyone but him that he was making something personal, still trying to save his father and never able to get back to that moment, so saving other fathers, instead, rescuing kids, salvaging families.
And coming back here, by himself, to drink beers and look out at the waves and have to stay afloat in a world that killed his father and hid his mother for years.
Danny isn't unsympathetic. He feels for Steve, aches for him, hurts for him in a way he's not sure Steve is fully capable of allowing himself to feel. He doesn't want to make things worse, wants to fix what he can, but when there's nothing to do that can fix, the best he can do is to try and draw out as much poison as he can, be there for whatever might help.
So he's unfazed by Steve's tone or words, because it means he's getting closer, wearing down the walls Steve keeps stubbornly adding bricks to almost as quickly as Danny kicks them back down, and he'd comment on it, but Steve actually keeps going, and Danny has to take a second to tamp down on the sudden kick of worry that's decided to use him for punting practice.
Cath. With whom there is nothing happening. Because Steve stopped things with her. Cath. Who knows about them. Who Danny has happily managed not to think about, too much, since two weeks ago, for this exact reason: the filtering sense of dread that's starting to shade his thoughts, the clutch of nerves in his chest.
"And how is Lieutenant Rollins?"
One finger is tapping against the side of his beer bottle; stopping it just starts a bounce of one knee that gets smothered when he leans his weight onto it, forearms barring thighs. And if he sounds a little more cautious, well -- Cath knows. About them. She's the only one who does, and Danny can put two and two together, alright, that's his job, and he doesn't think it's a coincidence that Steve had dinner with Cath and then came back here to stare moodily out at the ocean like someone on the other side of it owes him money.
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And coming back here, by himself, to drink beers and look out at the waves and have to stay afloat in a world that killed his father and hid his mother for years.
Danny isn't unsympathetic. He feels for Steve, aches for him, hurts for him in a way he's not sure Steve is fully capable of allowing himself to feel. He doesn't want to make things worse, wants to fix what he can, but when there's nothing to do that can fix, the best he can do is to try and draw out as much poison as he can, be there for whatever might help.
So he's unfazed by Steve's tone or words, because it means he's getting closer, wearing down the walls Steve keeps stubbornly adding bricks to almost as quickly as Danny kicks them back down, and he'd comment on it, but Steve actually keeps going, and Danny has to take a second to tamp down on the sudden kick of worry that's decided to use him for punting practice.
Cath. With whom there is nothing happening. Because Steve stopped things with her. Cath. Who knows about them. Who Danny has happily managed not to think about, too much, since two weeks ago, for this exact reason: the filtering sense of dread that's starting to shade his thoughts, the clutch of nerves in his chest.
"And how is Lieutenant Rollins?"
One finger is tapping against the side of his beer bottle; stopping it just starts a bounce of one knee that gets smothered when he leans his weight onto it, forearms barring thighs. And if he sounds a little more cautious, well -- Cath knows. About them. She's the only one who does, and Danny can put two and two together, alright, that's his job, and he doesn't think it's a coincidence that Steve had dinner with Cath and then came back here to stare moodily out at the ocean like someone on the other side of it owes him money.