No longer drinking directly from Deana's heart, her blood becomes his own. Or his own consumes hers, and his skin is warm with it. Considers the creature he is, the root-like system of veins and arteries, reaching down, producing something unseen in the sun, but doesn't get too far down that path before Daniel speaks, his voice a resonance texture in the air, and draws his focus.

Amber eyed, blue eyed. A twenty-year old with fear and an unwavering focus in his eyes, a busy and distracted thirty-something power walking down a city street, a sixty-nine year old saying you're not from Dubai, I thought you were a native, as if he was the story.

He had smiled then too, as he does now, a fleeting and rare thing. Blood flecked, still, but human otherwise. "Yes," he says. He likes that analogy. Likes to watch the water go by.

Externally, it isn't quite the sleepy softness that Daniel has had some exposure to, since they began some co-habitation. Dreamy, maybe, but just as much from a satisfying draw of blood as the effects of the drugs. A sense that Armand is looking at him very intently, all of a sudden. A deliberate focusing.

"Now you," he invites.