Daniel would like to play it cool (who doesn't want to be cool?) but he's surprised. Sparks of success, curiosity, and then, tempered: What the fuck is Armand doing, exactly? Lulling him somehow? It's such a waste to be paranoid, though. And it's not like he can do anything worse to him.

"I'll start thinking about menu, then."

Which is another kind of funny thing. What to pick. What can he source. What is the best showcase for the virtues of illegal drugs. He'd had an answer ready to go when asked about the best high he'd ever had— badly processed heroin, the kind that risks necrosis at injection sites, unfiltered, half-contaminated. It's been in his head for decades more firmly than being attacked by a vampire, and yet—

And yet.

Drinking Armand's blood was better.

An unidentifiable feeling slithers up his spine when he thinks it. He's been trying not to, he realizes. Putting it away, out of sight on a shelf, refusing to so much as look at it. Telling himself he'd have to wade through fuzzy, maddening memories anyway, disoriented and crazed as he was. Denial. The thought sits shining front and center, as though it's between them and their room temperature coffee cups.

"Mm. Your turn to pick."