"Forget." That's not the word he was going to say earlier. He's not even sure what those ones were anymore.
He's not sure when Danny's voice is becoming marginally softer, and his shoulders aren't as tense. When his name is like a whisper sharper than steel and harder than hail. Not when he feels like he's standing at the top of cliffs or mountains and the wind is screaming past his ears. That perfectly balmy, evening wind, that is barely swaying the palm trees and tugging at the grass. Is screaming through him, when he looks back toward Danny's face.
"I can't forget." But doesn't make it. Again. He's looking at Danny's fingers circled on his wrist. Tightening.
Burning into him. Burning through him, like he's not indestructible. A wall, a bullet, a battering ram.
When he needs to be. He needs it. So he can make it through the next second, because it's so stupidly weak, and so entirely true, it could break everything. In ways that could never be mended. Danny could get over him, but not that. That would gut him hollow, and he'd be too far to even reach to help, and he's become so much more than the angry haole cop from Jersey that Steve allocated for his own use.
So much more. Maybe too much. Maybe it's been too much more for so long he can't remember how it was before.
When there's this swimming sickness, sharp stillness, clawing at his insides and falling out of his mouth, and he can't apologize. Because it is more important. It's everything that is Danny at his core. "I can't be the next person to take Grace from you." Grace, or his chances at her, or Danny from Hawaii when he'd follow wherever she went, like a person swimming up, frantic for air. From him. From Five-0. Everything.
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branchandroot
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Date: 2013-05-03 02:34 am (UTC)He's not sure when Danny's voice is becoming marginally softer, and his shoulders aren't as tense. When his name is like a whisper sharper than steel and harder than hail. Not when he feels like he's standing at the top of cliffs or mountains and the wind is screaming past his ears. That perfectly balmy, evening wind, that is barely swaying the palm trees and tugging at the grass. Is screaming through him, when he looks back toward Danny's face.
"I can't forget." But doesn't make it. Again. He's looking at Danny's fingers circled on his wrist. Tightening.
Burning into him. Burning through him, like he's not indestructible. A wall, a bullet, a battering ram.
When he needs to be. He needs it. So he can make it through the next second, because it's so stupidly weak, and so entirely true, it could break everything. In ways that could never be mended. Danny could get over him, but not that. That would gut him hollow, and he'd be too far to even reach to help, and he's become so much more than the angry haole cop from Jersey that Steve allocated for his own use.
So much more. Maybe too much. Maybe it's been too much more for so long he can't remember how it was before.
When there's this swimming sickness, sharp stillness, clawing at his insides and falling out of his mouth, and he can't apologize. Because it is more important. It's everything that is Danny at his core. "I can't be the next person to take Grace from you." Grace, or his chances at her, or Danny from Hawaii when he'd follow wherever she went, like a person swimming up, frantic for air. From him. From Five-0. Everything.