Lucifer takes his place in the passenger seat, both hands wrapped around the warmth of the coffee cup, drinking it slower than Daniel. He doesn't drink it like it'll run away from him if he doesn't get it fast enough; he lets the taste linger. It's heavy and bitter and a little burned, a sort of woodsmoke aftertaste.

The hours of rest have done his vessel some good. It hurts less, though the pain of his vessel is something that he knows how to ignore, and he has been able to use the Grace he would normally be burning off to repair some of his damage. By the time they make it to New York, he might even be presentable, if a little too bearded.

"What's in New York for you?"