That voice is softer. Still winded, but it's starting to sound more right. More like it did during the first ten or twenty minutes in the bar. During the whole conversation from the office to the car, to even the conversation convincing Steve, no too complicatedly, that it'd be a great idea. Lay back, relax, drink some beers, catch whatever game was playing on the screens, even if it was a replay, and let the day drain away.

The words themselves drag out a smile, though. And a chuckle. Steve shaking his head, letting his hands move finally. Slide down the sides of Danny's neck, until his forearms are resting lightly on Danny's shoulders, fingertips barely crossed against the back of his neck. When there is that chuckle, and he ducks his head, shaking it just enough, and the words he says are, "Your words. Not mine."

Before his fingers unlink, and he tugs Danny a little back toward him, with the palms of his hands against shoulder, eyes lighter even for the quiet pleased, wariness there. The touch maybe enough to rock him the smallest bit, but not enough to even send him a step, though Steve takes one backwards. "Come'on, upstairs."

Upstairs, where Steve can be done with these shoes, and this shirt, and the rest of putting the day away.

Even if nothing else does happen. Which is rare, but it has happened. This month has been insane. It's seen a lot of things he hadn't been expected to see, do, have. Even if there is every likelihood with Danny this conversation may not even be done. Maybe get more comments in a minute, or five, or fifteen, or the morning. At least if it's going to be continued Steve gets to propel them toward somewhere more relaxed and less encumbered.