The ride is quiet, headed back toward town. The reverse of heading into this area. The encampment covered in places, slowly petering away to less and less as the highway takes them. The only sound the car, that is accelerating like Danny means to drive all his still pent-up frustration into the car and the road. While Steve's starting to grow oddly amused, diagonally amused at the fact it doesn't seemed diminished in the slightest.

The car continues to glide along too fast for the speed limit, and Danny Williams continues to hold on to the steering wheel like he might be imagining it's Steve's neck. And even when he's not really looking, Steve's looking every few seconds. Maybe every ten or twenty, because he's already seen all of this road, okay. It's all greens, and the ocean is gorgeous and blue, going out forever.

Not making him feel any the more released by its nearness.

If anything looking toward it emphasizes his landlockedness.

Sends him back looking the opposite direction of his window. Toward Danny. And the tight hold of himself. Well. The half tight hold. His right hand is up and tight, from shoulder to fingers, while his second one is still down, jostling on the armrest and Danny's lap. And, okay, maybe he was never going to thank Danny for shooting Doran. Not anymore than he was ever going to apologize to Victor for shooting Anton.

But, okay, he can admit he does know that while he might be used to ducking bullets, blades and bombs, running insurgencies, and almost dying on a daily basis, a normal cop isn't. A normal cop actually gets that scared, life might be ending rush still, for a single bullet lodging in their skin. Or in Danny's case. Nearly lodging. Sending him into a tail spin about his daughter, and his life.

So maybe Steve can't thank him. But maybe he can actually give a damn. A little. Get along to get along.

Open his mouth, while staring out the front window, and make himself ask. "How's the arm?"