Least convincing set of words in the world, which might as well be a yes to his question. Because Danny's going to keep talking about his pants, flipping it back to whatever Steve said, like that's suddenly the right answer. Like the hyper, frenetic energy behind the whole thing isn't stil there, thrumming loud and present. While Danny is still pulling him closer, too.

Like neither of them can keep from answering that part. Demanding more of it. Danny pulling at his shoulder, until he's coming another step closer. Like there's even room to get closer. When Danny was already pressed against the side of the mattress, and it's frustratingly, almost desperately and suddenly, like the only thing on the table. Following the pull on his shoulder forward, pushing further into the fingers against his stomach.

Even more into Danny's space, up against Danny. His own hands just moving. Tracking from Danny's back, up his shoulder, and against his neck. Voice growing more flippant and edged, challenged frustration and keen abject loss that was anything but passive. "Right. Great." Fingers heavy on Danny's neck, wrist against his shoulder, when Steve's leveling, catching the edge of his chin and turn Danny's face up toward him. "Was that really so hard?"

The question that isn't even asked as a question, because, obviously, it was. Somehow. For some reason. Like pulling teeth suddenly. No, not even that. Like pulling five hundred ton bricks from a cemented-in wall suddenly. Where absolutely nothing was wrong, and no problem was being had, with that frantic, exasperated, anything to make you stop tone kept coming out as parts of his very few escaping words. Jokes that were nothing like Danny when he was joking. Giving in like nothing it was either.

Anything, everything, that wasn't whatever whatever else was. Which is just winnow the whole world, pants included, to go burn itself down. Elsewhere.