He's at a bar. He's at a gay bar, even. None of this is particularly new for anyone that knows Daniel--anyone that really, truly knows him. Not that anyone really does. But it's San Fran, and booze tends to be a decent social lubricant. More importantly, there's almost always smack or coke or quaaludes for cheap.

After everything that's happened, it's all he really can think of to do. Louis had left after their argument and Daniel had taken a while to pull himself out of a stunned silence, a spark of rage flickering up almost immediately after. There's a hole in the wall in Louis' place where he'd punched the drywall, bloodied knuckles matching nicely with the other bruises he'd got from the pathetic attempt at a fight with a vampire.

Daniel's not ashamed to admit the first thing he did after gathering the tapes and his belongings was to pawn the more expensive things he was able to carry. That's why he's able to afford a few drinks, splurging in an attempt not to wallow in his own misery. It's not working, though. If anything, it's making it worse.

What he needs is drugs. He slams his drink, finishing the mint concoction and setting the glass on the dingy bar's table. Lucid, analytical eyes scan the bar as casually as possible, looking for his best chance to score.