There's no denying it. It's been one hell of a Christmas. Considering this is Danny's second in the space of four months, he really could have done with a quiet, uneventful few days where all he did was sleep in, tidy up and go to church. Sleeping had been hit and miss, his apartment looks like a bombsite with day-old laundry lying around (in a basket, tucked away, but still) and church is a word best left unspoken.
Today, he had planned on cooking pasta fazool while he and Father Anthony dissected the complexities of Daniel Alan Castellano's life, starting with his childhood and ending with the impure thoughts he'd had last week when he'd inadvertently walked in on the end of Mary Poppins in the doctors' lounge. Was it the accent or the flying or the talking umbrella? Now he'll never know.
Instead, Danny's fresh from the shower after a session at the gym, legs stretched out on his couch, cool flannel resting over his eyes. He has the tv on in the background as company, some show about the fifty funniest moments in the history of Darrow, and Mindy's neck massager pressed to the tense muscles just above his shoulder, the constant buzz a comforting substitute for his old white noise machine back home.