Danny watches the ocean -- exaggerated movement for exaggerated words, letting the silence slip in, except this time like it's a third person, with it's own sound and presence, filling up all the spaces, all that air -- but Steve finds himself watching Danny. The loose catch of his own fingers on the neck of his bottle like the loose catch of some other hold on his chest, his lungs, his thoughts watching him.

The dusting of day's stubble, and the confused tension in his posture. The blue of his eyes, that out does Steve's ocean too easily for there being so much less of it. Press of his lips, pink, dry, and certain even in uncertainty. Steve can almost see Danny trying to figure out. Well, whatever he's trying to figure out. He's not sure Danny will want to know really. Even when Danny is looking back over at him, again. Checking him over, like a through and through. Like he could find it.

Written on Steve's skin. Like so much else that is. Written on Steve's skin, and indecipherable. Stories trapped in secrets.

He's not sure that would ever be a good idea. A spot on his body he could look at and basically see initialed Danny Williams was here. Like the scars that said this case, or that tour, this fight, or that bout of capture, or holding out for reinforcements. All the rest of it. Not if it all should go. End. Not if moments like this might go with it, too. Not if everything except what had been there before went with it.

Steve gave him an exasperated look, all pointed eyebrows and the press of lips, canted one odd direction for Danny's example there. When he's giving an inch for one, but not quite for the other. Doing what he does best, of course. Pulling apart the things Danny says, that he thinks make any sense and don't stand up next to it. "Heavy artillery and ordinance weaponry needs a better security system than a key."

Because that's totally the point, Right? "Pin tumblers can always be picked, and cracked, too easily."