"What? Some of them might be metal. I don't know. I try not to assume these things about people I just met."

With a glance over, eyebrows raised and pulling together in an overdone martyr of an expression that actually is, Steve, is meant to be a joke, because Danny has already been so obviously sensitive about personal things like that.

Ha. Ha. It's funny, see?

But it's not not funny, either, when Steve's giving him that bland face that Danny's pretty sure is just the expressive equivalent of a drum-and-cymbal sting, a conversational beat. Dry humor. Letting Danny roll along past it, pick it up, add it in, no sweat. "I think it would depend on the one, myself."

A shrug, his hand floating towards his own chest, out to land on the wheel again, just in time for the left one to start moving. "You know, arms? Loosing one might not be too bad. One leg, though, that would be tough. It's hard to run after lowlife scumbags with only one leg -- or so I understand."

Which leads them to the crunch and roll of shells under tires, as he pulls into the driveway, which is still taped off. As the car pulls to a stop, engine purring, he leans forward to peer at the house, deep misgiving in his face, then looks over at Steve.

"Are you a hundred percent sure about this?"