It's kind of hard to describe how he feels when he sees Doris and Mer hugging in the doorway. A part of him – the largest part, he swears – is happy and relieved. He knows his family is broken, and it can never really be put back together, but some of the pieces still seem to fit okay, and that's a start.

There is a part o him, though, that selfishly wishes this little reunion, heartwarming as it is, could've waited until morning. He knows it's an asshole thing to think, and it shouldn't matter what time it is or how much of his skin is throbbing, as long as his sister and his mother are together again.

And it doesn't. Not really. He's had way worse than a long day and a little bit of road rash before. Besides, if anyone has the right to complain, it's Kono. He only got dragged behind a truck a little; she got thrown out of one.

Still, something tells him it's gonna be a while before he gets to go to bed, and he guesses he's just gonna have to be okay with that.

"Have you had dinner yet?" he hears Doris ask, and he tries not to wince, he really does, but neither his sister nor his mother have outstanding track records in the kitchen. A hostage situation, he can handle, and that arrest this afternoon was pretty satisfying, but he thinks the fire marshal would probably put a damper on his otherwise-passable day.

Mercifully, he sees Mer nod, and he can relax knowing the kitchen will live to cook another day. The living room, however, looks like it's not getting out of this one, because they're headed for the couch. Doris has her hand on Mer's back, and they're laughing at something as they sit. Steve has no idea what they're talking about – the acoustics of the room weren't designed with reconnaissance in mind – but damn did they get chummy fast.

It's not that he minds, because he really, really doesn't. Laughing women are way better than screaming ones, every day of the week, and if it means he has to sacrifice the downstairs for a night, then so be it. He might actually get to sleep tonight after all.

"Oh, Steve," he hears Doris call, and he pretends he hasn't been listening to her the whole time as he walks up to the loft rail and looks down. He knows it's probably moot; she probably made him as soon as he started listening in, but it seems like the polite thing to do.

Danny would be so proud.

"Steve?" Doris calls again. He's leaning over the rail as far as he dares – because it turns out, there are consequences to getting dragged behind an armored car going seventy miles an hour, vest or no vest – and they're both looking up at him.

He raises his eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Are you going to bed?"

He glances back at his bedroom, then down to them again. "That was the plan," he tells her. It isn't necessarily true; the plan had been to sit downstairs and watch some television and maybe crack open a beer, but plans had changed, and he could be okay with that, considering the circumstances. Anyway, he has a TV in his bedroom; he'll make do.

"I think we ran him off," Mer says. And either she's trying to be loud, or she really needs to learn how to whisper, because she kind of missed the mark in a big way.

He just smiles at them. "It's past my bedtime."

"Are you sure, Steve? We can go upstairs, if you want to come down here."

"No, I think I'm gonna turn in," he says. "You kids have fun." And damned if that's not kind of funny to say, but he's too tired to laugh. Instead, he gives them a wave and a muttered 'good night' and leaves them to it.

He's still wearing his work clothes when he drops onto his bed. He landed on his front, which is, in hindsight, an error, because his stomach stings, and he's quick to roll back over onto his back. He's got a little bit of road rash on his back left shoulder, but it's barely more than a rug burn, and it's easy enough to ignore it and focus his attention on feeling blindly around the table by his bed for the remote.

There's a game on, and he doesn't mind watching that. Not that he's watching it for very long.

He can't say for sure when it was he dozed off – it's kind of hard to tell with those sorts of things – but he's drifting comfortably in that place between consciousness and sleep where he can still hear the sounds of voices downstairs and the low murmur of the television, but it's all pleasantly distant.

Of course, that doesn't stop his hand from snapping to the gun on his bed table when he hears a knock on his door.

"At ease, soldier," he hears from just outside his room, and through the crack in the door, he catches sight of a familiar head of blond and brown hair. It's soon followed by the rest of its owner, as Danny slips in the door.

Steve furrows his brows. "Danno? What're you doing here?" He doesn't mean to sound unwelcoming, but either he's dreaming – which he doubts, because he's not a pig, he swears, but Danny probably wouldn't still be wearing his work clothes – or Danny has some explaining to do.

"Currently?" Danny replies. "Well, Steve, right now, I'm being held at gunpoint."

Steve realizes he is, in fact, still aiming his gun at the door, and he promptly puts his gun back on the table. When he's done, he turns back to Danny, an eyebrow raised expectantly. "Now, what are you doing here?"

Danny lowers his hands down to his sides and steps a little farther into the room. "I'm visiting," he says. "Your mom and sister told me you were up here."

"Visiting?"

"Yes, Steve. Visiting. You know, that thing people do where they, you know, visit with one another?"

He doesn't sound angry, Steve decides, and he can't see that vein on his forehead that he's learned to look for. He's still in the clear, then. "I know what visiting means, Danny," he deadpans. "I'm asking why you're doing it."

Danny folds his arms across his chest and pretends to think. "Because I missed you?" he suggests.

"Try again."

"You have issues. You know that?" Danny says.

Steve forces himself to keep a straight face – because now that he knows Danny's not angry, their banter's quickly becoming the highlight of his day – and nods. "You might've mentioned it a few times, yeah."

Danny snorts. "Might've mentioned it a few—" He stops himself and smiles, pressing his hands together in a steeple. "Well, at least I know you listen to me sometimes."

"Sorry, what was that?"

"You're lucky you're pretty."

Steve cocks his head to the side, and he's given up trying to keep his face blank. "You think I'm pretty?"

That merits an eye roll. "Of course," Danny says. "That, you hear."

"Seriously, though – you think I'm pretty?" Steve's grinning, leaning back on his arms partly in an effort to keep his belt out of his road rash, but mostly because he's feeling kind of smug.

Danny looks unimpressed, but he's moved closer, so his legs are nearly touching Steve's knees hanging over the foot of the bed. "Right now, I think you're annoying."

"Is that right?" It's really too easy to reach up and pull Danny down to his level. With one hand on the back of his head and his legs hooked around Danny's – because although he's all for contact, but he doesn't think either of them would enjoy Danny toppling over onto him – he leans up and captures his lips.

He feels the bed shift as Danny braces a hand beside him. The other comes to rest on his hip, and he's totally fine with that.

What he's not so fine with is when Danny's hand starts moving upward, and he curses himself for it, but he can't help hissing when Danny's hand finds his road rash.

Danny very deliberately leans back. His hand has fallen from Steve's stomach down to bracket his hip just like the other one, and he's looking at Steve with a very pointed expression that he usually reserves for suspects that have gone and done something stupid.

He bites his lip, looks down, then looks back up. "Steve," he says, his voice a little too even and a little to saccharine to be entirely safe, "what was that?"

"Well, you see, when two adults love each other very much—"

"Please, I beg of you, do not make me smack you."

Clearly, Danny is not buying what he's selling.

He tries again. "It's nothing, Danno. Don't worry about it."

"Why do I feel like those are gonna be your last words?"

"Not a chance," Steve says firmly. "My last words are gonna be way cooler."

Danny sighs, and yep, there it is. There's the vein. Danny's head falls forward, and Steve knows he's making a concerted effort not to blow his top, which he appreciates, because apparently sometime while he was napping, his neck muscles decided they really didn't like crashing a car. He's got a steady throbbing from his shoulders to the space behind his eyes, and while it's not that hard to ignore, he thinks it might get a little harder if his boyfriend starts yelling.

"May I see?" he says finally, and Steve thinks if his voice gets anymore taut, it'll probably snap.

"See what?"

"I don't know, Steven." Steven. Now he knows he's in trouble. "That's what I am trying to find out, if you will let me see without going ninja-SEAL on me and twisting my arm off."

If it wasn't for the stern look Danny is giving him, Steve would probably laugh. He isn't sure how much of what Danny said he could do, he actually thought he could do, but he thinks it's kind of funny.

Except, right now, Danny looks serious, and it's not quite as funny anymore. He's not going to be able to get out of this one; he knows that. So, he doesn't try. Instead, he sighs, and goes for the hem of his shirt. Danny's nice enough to straighten up and give him space to pull his shirt up over his head, and no, his head really doesn't like that, but he gets it off and tosses it over in the general direction of his clothes hamper.

Danny's whole face seems to fall, before it disappears behind his hands. He always does this when he's frustrated. He rubs his face, and Steve already knows the sighs coming before he hears it.

When Danny drops his hands, he's looking at Steve like he can't decide whether to lynch him or lecture him.

"I knew it," he says.

That's…definitely not what Steve was expecting. "I'm sorry, what?"

"You. This." He gestures up and down Steve's bare, scuffed torso. "I knew it."

And that's when it clicks. "You're checking up on me," Steve says, and he's actually smiling. There's always something satisfying about figuring Danny out. "And here I thought you just wanted the pleasure of my company."

"That's funny." He's not laughing, and the smile on his face is more incredulous and exasperated than amused. "But no. No, I am here because I saw you after the bust, pulling your shredded paper routine. I thought, knowing you, I should probably—" He stop short, scowling. "What? Why—why are you smiling? Is something funny?"

Steve knows he's about to catch hell for it, but he can't bring himself to wipe the goofy grin off his face. "You were worried about me."

"Yes," Danny says sharply. "Yes, I was. I was worried about you, just like I am always worried about you, you suicidal Neanderthal animal. Is this news to you?"

Steve shakes his head and decides to ignore his head's not-so-friendly reminder that movement is a bad idea. "Nah," he says. "I just like to hear you say it."

"Yeah, well, hear me say it from your bathroom."

"What?"

"Oh, is your selective hearing kicking back in? Should I repeat myself?"

Steve narrows his eyes. "Is this some weird form of time out?"

"You need professional help."

"So I've heard."

Danny stares at him for a second, then claps his hands against his thighs, and damned if Steve doesn't nearly wince. Whiplash is a bitch. "Alright, Sasquatch, up you get." He offers Steve a hand, too.

Steve just looks at it. "Danny," he says slowly.

"What?"

"It's a road rash."

"Meaning…what, exactly?"

"Meaning," Steve says, "I can definitely stand by myself."

For a second, Danny frowns, but then he steps back, holding his hands up. "Fine," he says. "Of course. Far be it from me to give the Super SEAL a hand."

"That's not what I meant." He stands, and closes the distance Danny just put between them.

"Hey, hey, what are you doing?" Danny says as Steve puts a hand on either of his shoulders, but Steve just looks him straight in the eye and smiles.

"Thank you."

It's not often that Danny get's too flustered for words, but Steve thinks he has him for a minute there. Just when he's about to get worried, though, Danny smiles back, albeit begrudgingly, and rolls his eyes. "Alright, alright. If you really want to thank me, go clean up. You look like someone tried to use you as a skateboard." To illustrate his point, he hooks a finger in the waistband of Steve's cargos and pulls them down a little. The worst of the road burn is about the size of his hand, stretching from just above his navel where his vest ended down a little past his hip bones, and it's turned an angry red that looks about how it feels: painful. "Yikes."

"I've had worse," Steve tells him.

Danny shrugs. "So have I. Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt like a bitch. Now," he turns Steve around by his shoulders and starts pushing him towards the adjoining bathroom, "march, two, three, four."

It's a sure sign of just how bad he's got it for his partner that he actually lets Danny march him into the bathroom like a toy soldier, and then he doesn't even complain when Danny all but shuts the door in his face.

Worse, he actually smiles to himself, and after shedding the rest of his clothes, he turns on the shower and steps under the spray.

He'd be lying if he said it doesn't sting like a swarm of fucking hornets when the hot water hit each of the little – and the one not-so-little – scuffs from his para-skidding adventure that afternoon, but like he told Danny, he's had worse. He toughs it out, letting the water wash out all the dirt and debris he knows is still lodged in the abraded skin, and it's almost died down to a dull burn when he hears the door open.

He pokes his head out of the shower curtain, and is surprised to see Danny minus one tie and his dress shirt – he's wearing a t-shirt now, and Steve thinks with just the slightest hint of satisfaction that it looks like one of his – rifling through the cabinets under the sink.

"I thought the rule was wait until at least the third date before you start sniffing through the medicine cabinets," he says, and he knows as soon as Danny turns around and he sees his chest puff out under the t-shirt – definitely one of his – that he's about to get an earful.

"Let's get two things straight," Danny says. He's got one hand on his hip and the other holding up a finger. "One, this is not a date, nor should it even be considered in the realm of a date. And two, if it was a date, which it definitely isn't, it would be the third one."

Steve frowns. "You can't count the bar," he says.

"Oh, oh yes I can. The cracked rib says I can."

"It was an accident, Danny," Steve protests. "I said I was sorry."

"And I believe you," Danny says. He's still looking through the cabinets, and Steve thinks about asking what he's looking for so he can save him the trouble, but Danny starts talking again before he gets the chance. "I also believe that you, my friend, are the only man on this planet capable of not only accidentally choosing the bar frequented by Yakuza enforcers, but also accidentally pissing those enforcers off bad enough that they feel the need to start a bar fight of Bronx Talean proportions."

"What can I say?" Steve shrugs, and he's relieved when it doesn't twinge his neck nearly as bad. The hot water's helping that, even if it does feel like it's boiling the skin of his lower abdomen. "I'm a man of many talents."

"You're also a man of many toiletries," Danny remarks, and Steve watches him sit back on his haunches. "Seriously, what is all this?"

"What's it look like?"

"It looks like you're running a beauty salon out of your bathroom sink."

"Damn, and I thought I was being so sneak about it, too."

"I told you, babe: I'm a great detective." He seems to have found what he was looking for, too, because he stands, and Steve recognizes the red plastic tackle box he's holding in his hand. "Gotta have some reason for you to keep me around."

"I already have plenty of reasons," Steve replies.

Danny's eyebrows jump up a little. "Oh wow, that—that was a new level of cheesy, even for you, Smooth Dog."

"I was trying to pay you a compliment." Rolling his eyes, Steve holds out a hand. "Pass me that towel, would you?"

Danny does, and Steve does a rush job drying off before wrapping the towel around his waist and stepping out of the shower. There's clean briefs and pajama pants waiting on the sink for him, but Danny's nowhere to be found, so he gets dressed and pads out to the bedroom.

"Those're riding a little low, don't you think?" Danny says as he walks into the bedroom. Steve's not as surprised as he should be to see a few things already laid out across his bed, from gauze to antibiotic ointment.

Steve raises an eyebrow. "Haven't you heard of letting it air out?"

Danny just smiles. "First, I think it's very cute you asking me about my hearing. But in case you've forgotten, I have a ten-year-old daughter."

"And that has anything to do with this…how?"

"I'll tell you what that has to do with this. I started teaching Grace how to ride a bike when she was five."

The mental image of Danny pushing Grace on a bike down some Jersey rode is either enough to make him smile or cringe.

"My point being," Danny continues, "I've had plenty of experience with skinned knees and elbows. You do not 'air it out' the day you get it."

Steve resists the urge to point out that, actually, his elbows and knees are fine. Something tells him Danny wouldn't appreciate it.

Apparently, Danny's satisfied he's made his point, because he nods him over. "Sit," he says, and he pats the bed.

"I'm not a puppy," Steve says.

"Of course you're not," Danny replies. "Puppies are eager to please their masters; you, babe, are eager to antagonize."

Steve thinks about telling Danny that isn't true, but he decides Danny knows that and he's just being wise. He also decides that it's not because he wants to prove Danny wrong that he walks over and sits on the bed, but that he's just really damn tired, and that bed looks really inviting.

He sits down, and Danny's waiting with a tube of antibiotic cream to hand him.

"Make sure you get it covered, otherwise it's gonna be a bitch tomorrow when you change the bandage."

Steve glances up from smearing the ointment on his burn. "Yes, master," he says, smirking, and okay, he probably deserves the flick to his nose, but still. "Did you just flick me on the nose?"

"Yes. Yes I did."

"Can I ask why?"

Danny shrugs. "I saw it on Animal Planet once."

It used to be that explanation would raise some questions. But then Grace started hanging around, and he'd seen more It's Me Or The Dog than he'd ever wanted to, and suddenly, it made a lot more sense.

So, he'll let this one slip, just this once. Besides, he's finished with the welt on his stomach, and he has to concentrate, because he's looking at his reflection in one of his paintings, trying to figure out how the hell he's getting the little one on the back of his left arm.

He's got a plan. Really he does. He's not looking forward to stretching that much, but he can definitely handle it.

Except Danny takes the tube before he can put his plan into action and sits down on the bed behind him. "This one's not so bad," Danny remarks idly as he starts applying the cream. "You know, for being dragged under a moving vehicle."

"Hey, it worked," Steve protests.

He sees Danny nod in the reflection of one of the frames on the wall. "That it did. That it certainly did. You got the evil stepmother of all rug burns, but hey, it could've been worse, right?" He gets up to wash his hands, and comes back with a wet washcloth for Steve to wipe his own off while Danny gets started on the bandages.

"It could have been worse, Danny," Steve tells him. It could've been a lot worse.

Danny sighs. "I know. I'm just—I'm trying to wrap my head around why every one of your heroic plans always seem to end with you missing, at the very least, a layer of your skin."

"It's part of my process." It isn't, of course. Not intentionally, anyway. But it's better he gets a little scuffed up than one of his team members gets a little dead. And he knows he's being a smartass, but he doesn't like that look in Danny's eyes. He doesn't look so much worried as sad, and that…that doesn't sit right. "Hey," he says, turning around on the bed so that he can look at Danny without the help of a reflection, "I'm fine."

Danny opens his mouth to say something, but for once, Steve beats him to it.

"I mean it, Danno. I'm a little scuffed up. It happens. What matters is that we got Kono back, everyone made it out okay, and—"

But Danny stops him there. "Okay, okay," he says. "Okay. I get it. I'm not happy about it, but I get it."

"I can work with that." And normally, with Danny seated so conveniently on his bed, wearing one of his shirts he might add, he would be. Working with it, he means.

Unfortunately, he's having a hard time keeping his eyes open, and with his pulse pounding a steady tempo in his ears, what he really wants to do is pass out and sleep for a few years.

"Head hurt?"

Steve's too worn out to bother lying. Besides, Danny just spent the past fifteen minutes mummifying his midsection; he thinks they're past the point of bravado. "How'd you guess?"

"You mean aside from the fact that you're squinting at me like you're staring into the sun?" There's an opening there for a really cheesy compliment; Steve knows there is. He just can't think of it right now. "I've crashed a car before, babe. Whiplash is not a fun thing."

"Can I get that in writing?" Steve asks. "The part where you crash a car?"

"Of course, that's your takeaway."

Steve just shrugs.

Danny starts to stand, though, and he's thinking about apologizing, but then Danny heads for the dresser instead of the door. There's a glass of water sitting on it and a couple pills, and he grabs both before coming back over to stand in front of Steve. "These are for you," he says, holding out the pills. "And none of this 'don't need it' bullhockey, because I'm not—" He falters when Steve takes the pills and dry swallows them without so much as a protest. He blinks for a second. "Okay, then." But then he seems to decide to go with it, because he offers Steve the class of water, waits until he's drained the whole thing, and then puts it back on the counter.

Steve's laying back on the bed by the time he gets back over, one arm slung across his eyes and his legs hanging over the edge of the bed.

"What're you doing?" Danny says, and Steve can't see his face, but his voice sounds equal parts exasperated and sympathetic. If there's any annoyance in there, it's only a trace, and he peeks out from under his arm to see Danny watching him with crossed arms and furrowed brows. "You can't sleep there, babe."

"It's a bed. People sleep in beds."

"Correction: people sleep all the way in beds. Not hanging half off."

Steve covers his face again. "'m fine."

"Yeah, well my back's having fits just looking at you, so please, for my sake," Danny's fingers link in his, and he pulls his arm away. When the blur finally clears from Steve's eyes, he sees Danny leaning over him with an almost apologetic smile. "Up."

That is actually the one direction Steve least wants to go, but Danny's got that look, and before Steve even makes the conscious decision to do it, he's sitting up and scooting back towards the head of the bed.

"Hang on."

Steve's shoulders slump. "Danny—"

"Before you start bitching, just give me a second." Steve hears the rustle of clothes and the slide of a drawer, but he's got his eyes closed, so it's not until he feels the bed shift behind him and he actually turns to look that he figures out what Danny's talking about.

Danny's leaning back against the head of the bed, and when he sees he's got Steve's attention, he pats the bed between his now pajama-clad legs.

Steve doesn't need to be told, verbally or non-verbally, twice. Mustering up the last of his reserves – and he knows Danny's got to be just as tired as he is; he can see the lines on his face, and he's really not sure why Danny acts like he's the tough one all the time, because damn – he pushes up to the spot Danny's made for him and lets Danny pull him back to lean against his chest.

When he first feels hands settle on his shoulders, he can't help it; he tenses. Hands that close to his neck make him antsy.

But then he feels a chuckle against his back. "Easy there, Super SEAL," Danny says, his voice quiet and rasped and just fucking perfect. "Relax. Your shoulder blades are digging into my kidneys."

Steve finds it's not all that hard to comply with Danny's thumbs somehow finding every single knot and tear in his shoulders and neck and smoothing them away. His hands are warm and firm and welcome, and Steve can feel that familiar haze starting to close in around his head. The football game is over, he thinks; the post-game is barely a murmur in the background. He's more focused on the sound of Danny's breaths, anyway.

He barely even stirs when he feels another chuckle. "Think I should call your mom up here, ask if I can bunk over?"

Steve manages to peel an eye open and lean his head back enough to fix Danny with a teasing smile. "You gotta ask my mom for permission?"

"Damn straight." Danny doesn't even hesitate. "Rule number one in any successful relationship: do not piss off the in-laws. Especially not when those in-laws are ex-CIA super spooks."

Steve barely hears the last part; he's too busy replaying the first bit in his head, and he's grinning wider now as he looks up at Danny. "Successful relationship?" he says. "In-laws?"

He feels Danny's heartbeat kick up against his back, and he can see a bit of color rise to Danny's face, even though he manages to stay pretty stoic. "It's just a figure of speech."

"Right, yeah." Steve nods, but his smile doesn't go anywhere, even as he lets his eyes slide closed and his head fall back against Danny's chest. For a second, nothing exists but the sound of Danny's heartbeat and the feel of his chest, rising and falling steadily against Steve's back, and Steve can't help thinking, headache and road rash and exhaustion and all, he's never been more comfortable in his entire life.

Just a figure of speech, Danny said.

"You know," he mumbles, and his tongue is nearly as heavy as his eyes. "I wouldn't mind if it wasn't."