He can feel Daniel look at him. The bond, perhaps, or just a more base awareness, knowing that the cradling touch to his head was motivated by wanting to touch his hair, motivated by his fledgling drinking in the sight of him. In this century, he has decided to welcome back the enjoyment of being looked at, instead of expressly finding comfort in the wings.

Long and slow and tender, his swallowing down of poisoned blood. It had hit her quickly, he'd noticed, which means the blood will be close to instant. As soon as he begins to feel something a little like a warm undercurrent flow beneath his thoughts, a sense of floating, Armand retracts his fangs, keeps his mouth sealed just to stem the precious flow.

She is not dead, but she is not lucid, she is gone from this realm, a limp thing on the sofa with a stubbornly beating heart.

Armand lifts his head, a glimmer of blood-stained teeth. Tips head, eyes opening to slivers as he presses his cheek to Daniel's hand.