Car, fine. Door, slammed shut. Securely, thanks, not because he's pitching a fit, remembering the way the girl at the bar had traced the pad of her finger along Steve's tattoo.

The one he can see, blurry in the darkness, just edging its way out of the edge of his shirt sleeve, and Danny's got to run his hand over his mouth just to push back the bite that wants to come, words choking themselves to silence in his throat.

And Steve is still smiling.

More than that, he looks actually gleeful, which is not a word Danny would generally use as a descriptor for Steve, okay, Steve is rarely filled with glee, unless he's gotten a brand new gun or managed to bring down a building. Occasionally it comes from ruining Danny's day, but, hey, that's a little vain, right?

He just leans away enough to get a good look at Steve's profile, disbelieving, and, you know what? Enough.

"What the hell is so funny, exactly?"

Bitten off words, and they're quiet, but that doesn't make them any less dangerous, like landmines set down one by one along a path.