Lucifer observes the manner in which Daniel takes his coffee-- the way he does not use the opening in the lid to drink from, requesting no additives, breathing in the smell of it first before drinking. He watches it like an outsider might observe a Japanese tea ceremony, trying to understand the nuances and details of a ritual that is entirely foreign, a cultural context separate from his own. It doesn't take long after he's ingested the first few mililiters for Daniel's posture to relax a little, like there is something soothing about the beverage.

Lucifer holds his own cup in both hands, letting the heat bleed into his fingers. His Grace is low, and his vessel has asserted its own normal homeostasis; the difference between the internal temperature of his hands and the coffee is only a dozen or so degrees Fahrenheit. The nights were cold, though, in the mountains this time of year, and his clothes were not entirely adequate, and the heat soothes something in the stiff joints of his fingers. Perhaps the appeal lies in the warmth of the beverage? The basic, animal need for heat?

He nods, acknowledging the room accomodations. "That will be adequate."

Lucifer only sleeps when he pushes his vessel too far, anyway. All he needs is a place to rest his legs for the night.