Steve's brow wrinkled, catching it half a second late, but -- words in a whirlwind, trying to tug at his thoughts, his focus, the annoyed slippery slope of all those seconds. Doris sleeping, Doris nearly crying, Doris saying ... all she said, Doris potentially lying through every single one. Layered with that noise that couldn't be missed, or heard, like speaking or listening in a sand storm, until it was -- like someone had just wafted shit under his nose.

Causing him to turn his head, with a grimace at the obnoxiousness of a single word, well-worn insult.

One that by now was never used except like a cattle prod, and never stopped hitting every time either. "Navy."

There's something to it. Like the echo that comes when you snap a chuck of ice hanging. That needs movement. More movement. Like he'd been frozen for a second. Even one second, and that was too long. Too still. Too in danger of being caught up in it, or found by it. And not now. Not now. Not here. Not while Danny was here. But it doesn't stop him from pulling his arm free.

Needing to move. Needing not to be held still. Needing not to be in one place. Or held to something. Which doesn't actually keep him from slipping Danny's hand with a fast twist of his own wrist, elbow, shoulder. "I should make you go get it all--" Beat. "--and the kitchen--" With the stack of plates and bottles from dinner, still waiting. "-- since you can't even seem to remember the most basic of things anymore. If you ever did."

At that same time as he's using his newly freed hand to push Danny toward and through the bedroom door. Hand catching him across a shoulder blade. Warm, sweat dried skin, under his fingers. Every single opposing message from his words, far more direct. Demanding they were followed through on more than anything else, passing between them, or him and this place.