It's not that far, and he's made it to his bathroom in such worse shape. Drunk, and beat to hell, and he can handle sex and standing, if he can handle those. Doesn't even angle for any lights, even though the living room lights through the hallway into a cascade of grey and yellow shadows. Still he just makes his way to the bathroom, blinking his eyes and mostly knowing it the way you know anything that doesn't change in almost forty years, by memory more than by sight.
He washes his hands, even uses the soap, and grabs a hand towel to wash off his stomach, because, what the hell he's already there, he might as well. Plus, maybe it runs the water a little longer like somehow it'll out run the strange echoing silence after every sudden sound of shifting about Danny is making. Without saying a word. Is just about to throw the washcloth back in the sink and deal with come morning, when he thinks better of it.
Runs the water again. Rubs it at least minorly clean. Wrings it out, gets it just to point of damp and shuts off the water. Then heads back from the bathroom. Awareness settled in through something like a scope, close enough for the little he has needs of. Enough for operations. Enough to operate a gun and survey his living room for a second on the walk back, even if it doesn't stop him. He's head right back for his bed, and for Danny, who is staring at the ceiling.
It's more than a little underwhelming. A little nerve-spiking. That staring. The stillness. That silence. But he settles, hard, on one side of the bed like isn't, jostling it and Danny, forcing his voice out and into saying, "Hey." And following up with, "Here," when he's offering Danny the damp rag, like newest thing bring him fully back into awareness, seizing his stomach in tight with tight fingers, is that maybe this is when it happens.
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He washes his hands, even uses the soap, and grabs a hand towel to wash off his stomach, because, what the hell he's already there, he might as well. Plus, maybe it runs the water a little longer like somehow it'll out run the strange echoing silence after every sudden sound of shifting about Danny is making. Without saying a word. Is just about to throw the washcloth back in the sink and deal with come morning, when he thinks better of it.
Runs the water again. Rubs it at least minorly clean. Wrings it out, gets it just to point of damp and shuts off the water. Then heads back from the bathroom. Awareness settled in through something like a scope, close enough for the little he has needs of. Enough for operations. Enough to operate a gun and survey his living room for a second on the walk back, even if it doesn't stop him. He's head right back for his bed, and for Danny, who is staring at the ceiling.
It's more than a little underwhelming. A little nerve-spiking. That staring. The stillness. That silence. But he settles, hard, on one side of the bed like isn't, jostling it and Danny, forcing his voice out and into saying, "Hey." And following up with, "Here," when he's offering Danny the damp rag, like newest thing bring him fully back into awareness, seizing his stomach in tight with tight fingers, is that maybe this is when it happens.