Daniel reaches up to scratch his jaw, itching at the phantom of a hand on his face, thumbing below his ear. Again, it's not that he's not scared of Armand. It's just that some time in his life he stopped letting fear get the only seat at the table. Just like he won't be moved by attraction alone.

His hips crackle as he gets to his feet. "You know, one of my daughters went to rehab when she was nineteen. Spent six months and a lot of money... and then this guy she started dating while they were in there, he invited her to go backpacking in Europe. Now, you know, and I know, that a backpacker hostel in Amsterdam isn't the best place for staying clean." He steps forward, moving into Armand's space, though not to touch. "I love my kid. But my loving her doesn't mean I get to decide how she lives her life. I got to make my mistakes when I was that age—"

He cuts off, abruptly, the story faltering as a tide of memories tries to wash over him again. Mistakes. Yellow light through the newspapers. Shouting. He breathes through it and it passes, the memory slipping away even as he blinks himself back to the bright poolside where he's trying to play therapist to a five hundred year old predator in a tiny swimming costume. He swallows.