He's had so many hangovers, but this one is bad. His vision is fucked, a kaleidoscope of nauseating color, his head is pounding, he's starving. Blinking blearily, tasting iron, bruises on— on where? Daniel touches his face, and he cringes at the sticky feeling, alcohol or come or both, probably, and he sways as he is, prone, before he makes the attempt to sit up.

Not entirely successful.

Someone's with him, and he grunts a hello. Is that—

No, he wouldn't have taken her out. Not like this. Some things are his own issues, and Daniel has plenty, things he does on weekends and vacations and 'work trips', and he feels dizzy.

"Morning, man." He sounds so weird. Daniel coughs. "I'm completely in the fucking bag, do you—" augh. Pain. Pain in his stomach, his chest, twisting, demanding. "Do you have an Advil, or anything? I'll clear out in a second, don't worry."

Are his hands alright? Daniel tries again to roll onto his side, get his feet on the floor.