Danny's hand wavers and falls, hanging limply over the back of the chair.

"I'd suck your dick for a decent pair of jeans, let alone a fucking knife," he says, because it's true. He misses his black denim, his durable leathers from the fog. The mask, a little. He misses his name not mattering to anyone. He rocks forward onto the chair's rickety back legs; his heels scuff the floor as he slides his boots neatly, toe-to-toe, toward John's feet. Cutting distance. Prodding boundaries.

With an upward jerk of his chin, dark brows bouncing once: "Your shit's under the bed. Be my guest."