"That's not what that means and you know it," Danny protests with a chastising point of his finger. At least he doesn't think that's what it means. Holy cannelloni.

He sits upright, stretching his spine and tipping his head back imploringly. For help. For forgiveness, maybe. There's so much guilt.

"Is it hot in here?" He asks, pinching his shirt and wafting. "It's hot as hell." He wipes his forearm across his dampening forehead, revealing a sweat patch under his arm. "Oh boy." He stands, intent on opening a window or ten to get some air into the apartment. "Talk about the lair of Lucifer."