Talk, talk, talk. It's all still pouring out over there, while Steve it putting himself back into the passenger seat and clicking his belt in. Talk, talk, talk. Steve might even go so far as to call it sass when Danny gets to that last question and all Steve has for him is the droll raise of his flat eyebrows with an odd tug quirked at the far edge of his mouth.

Because he might be incapable of silence or patience, but Danny Williams was not a stupid man.

Nor an unobservant one. If anything, he commented on every single piece of flotsam that floated past his vision.

He doesn't really have to answer that, because Danny answered it himself asking. Like some teenaged point that Steve shouldn't ask questions he doesn't want answered. Which should bug him but it really doesn't when he's glancing out the window. As far as odd quirks and annoying habits went, he could have gotten saddled with so much worse in the way of the cops he had. Danny, especially, given he'd gone and made the man his partner based solely on his having landed the sentence of his father's case.

It's not like it matters he doesn't answer either, because Danny is content to carrying right on to something new. Another question. The direction of where he's going, and those beers, supposedly. Back to the place he's spent so little time at, aside from so much earlier today. When he can point toward the direction of the road, and say, "That way," like there's some other direction that isn't that way. Like all roads don't lead to Rome. Even here.