"You know," Louis repeats back, syllables further softened by the reemergence of his accent. Affectionate.

Daniel knows so much. Sees so much. A gift that will only sharpen as time goes on, Louis presumes, become something more impressive than it has been. Louis' fingers pull slowly through his hair, working expensive product through to the very ends, before reaching out to draw Daniel in to him.

"Give me a hand," he coaxes, which is just an invitation for Daniel's hands on his skin, to be touched, with the soaps and soft clothes and rush of warm water an excuse for it. "We gonna have to get you something when we're finished here."

Blood. Louis can offer his usual fare, blood in thick mugs, in elegant glassware. But it's too late for a hunt. Louis wants to give Daniel that too, but tomorrow. It will wait until tomorrow.