Steve's got this tiny, triumphant glint in his eye, that's kind of softened a few steps away from his usual smug arrogance, but it's still enough to snag a loose thread in Danny's chest and tug on it, because, come on, it's not like anybody ever looks this glad to keep his hand, right? Most of the time they pretty much are glad to get him and his hands both out of their faces.

But not Steve. Not now. Looking at Danny all satisfied and companionable, somehow still not tired of him, after two years, after nearly two weeks.

"Look, don't get used to it. I still think people are way too laid-back on this godforsaken sand spit, but there is occasionally some merit to taking it easy. And I wasn't agreeing, I was, uh..."

He trails off, stumbling back over the conversation in his head, eyes drifting away from Steve's face and a faint frown parking itself, bemused, between his eyebrows.

"I had a point. It was disagreeing with you, I remember, because I am almost always disagreeing with you. However, I seem to have gotten away from it. Marginally."

Something about not moving. Right? Except then Steve tossed out the idea of bed, and as much as Danny hates the thought of getting up, or leaving this spot, or letting Steve move away even an inch, he has to say that bed, with its lack of sticking leather and all of Steve's body weight, is sounding like a better and better option.