The insane thing is -- you know, the one he's never going to admit he thought aloud -- the noise actually helps. Danny not shutting up. Just rambling off over there. About fruit choices and food preferences like it's actually a thing, and even, if a little reluctantly, about the brewery. None of it really catches its nails in the floor, to gouge into the flood, to hold on. But it doesn't. Not on to the floor, or on to him. But it makes him look over. Focus a few seconds more. Away from the pounding door, shivering in the back of his head.

From the world he can't look at over his shoulder. Even when Danny is thrusting it right into his lap.

Something he can look at for a second while pushing it all back. The memories this place wants to dredge up, blood seeping under the cracks of doors, because it is all familiar. And it should be. And he needs to not let it be, and let it be, let it do whatever it has to do that isn't getting in the way of the case. Which for the moment is making the comment and then slamming the door on it. Refusing to go in there. Because it's just an island, and a house, and a pack of beer bottles, too.

They never belonged to his dad. Or his mom. Or to anyone else. They probably weren't even made outside of this last year. It's just his head, and he's been trained on how to handle that. How to put himself aside and just do the job. Not matter what the job entails, or sacrifices he needs to make, personal or professional, to make sure that is never in jeopardy. Snatches of chants and bits of oath slipping in the oily black corners of his head, when he means to nod but doesn't this time.

Just leans back in his chair. "Yeah. Maybe. When this is all over." Words that are too simple for an ongoing five year case.