Hands go to Lestat's head, careful, resting there and sometimes smoothing bits of blond hair. Daniel finds it all a little intimate, but he's the guy who encouraged Armand crawl to into bed with him less than a week ago, so he can shut his own objections up, honestly. He wonders at how scattered his own head feels right now, not for any vampiric reasons, but just stress. A desire to have his kind of control over a situation, which is just knowing all the angles and how things might turn out if he winds this way or the other way or flips something on its head.

Right now there's nothing. He does have a few ideas, but they're all bad ones. Like: Louis is never going to speak to him again. Like: he still does want to go and find Armand.

If the first thing happens, it'll free him up for the second, but he doesn't want it that way. He knows what he should let go of, and he's angry enough to, but there's a lurching sickness that comes over him, a pull deep in his gut, when he thinks of turning his back on the creature that transformed him. If nothing else, Armand has shit to answer for.

Daniel thinks it's like intangible, wet clay. There's some instinct to feel where it's been smashed on the throwing wheel, and he can run an attentive touch along parts of it, smoothing it back. Impressions spill over onto him, but he doesn't make an effort to look closely. Just lets it go. No awareness of how long they spend, when his awareness prickles.

"Lunch," he advises.

Too late to ask, Where do you think I should be, now?