The second city Daniel follows him to is when he'll first see Armand at the edge of the crowd.
The first city nothing, but the second he lingers, hands stuffed in a old coat he must have stolen from a victim given the style is nothing like the sleek look of Dubai's wardrobe. Perfectly cryptid, blink and he's gone sort of theatrics he would claim isn't drama yet still times too perfectly to be anything but.
It's the third city, Boston, that near the end of the line a familiar young man comes up and slaps his book down.
'Young' is of course a joke, though apparently Armand takes playing human seriously given the contacts are back in. More theatrics, down to the costume of any typical college boy with a hoodie and beanie, curls bursting out from beneath as he regards Daniel with thinned lips.
"A riveting story," he says plainly, somehow more sarcastic than if he kept his tone dry.
Being able to track Armand down is a good feeling. Once he gets the hang of it, once he discovers that he can reliably pinpoint him through a triangulation of armchair diagnoses around his past, aggressive investigation into his current lifestyle, and the ambient feeling of the bond, he's filled with a vicious sense of triumph. Hah. Got you.
And he could go march into his marker's hideyholes. Old money safehouses and vagrant closets. He's very confident. But he doesn't. He leaves that, and sits smugly at each of his events, aware that Armand is aware. Aware that Armand can feel him, and that his maker will know that Daniel is here, Daniel has followed him, and yet Daniel is not taking that last step.
When the creepy fossil in the shitty human suit marches up to him, Daniel's smile is serene, earnest, and unbearably shit-eating.
Victory.
"Thanks!" Ungloved hands slide the book closer, spin it around, crack it open. "I'm always happy to meet another fan. Who should I make it out to?"
Armand cannot deny some satisfaction at Daniel's tracking skills. Scratch that, he would deny it to Daniel's face for as long as necessary to try and smother that unbearably smug look from his face, but apart from that it is... hm. A relief, perhaps, that Daniel is taking to well to the dark gift. That he is capable of the sort of cleverness needed to survive his unbelievably stupid stunt with Louis and this book.
"Rashid," Armand answers, well aware he's already lost any ground by coming here at all. Why did he? The relentless draw, he could blame that, the tether between them he cannot sever. Distance does not choke it out, rationality does not sway it.
His smug, unbearable firstborn. "Your tour stops have been rather erratic." Thanks to Armand.
"I like to keep moving. Never know when I'll drop dead."
We have fun.
Daniel scrawls something out into the blank first page of the book. It does not say To Rashid, and he doesn't immediately return the tome. Holding it, and thus Armand, captive in this encounter. He's a chatty guy, it's not unusual for these things to take a while per person if he starts talking— and the lines are never all that long. His fleeting celebrity star is in a d-list constellation; sure, the book is explosive in its popularity, but he's still just a writer, just an old man.
It takes considerable restraint not to respond to that comment on various levels. For example, the handful of overzealous vampires that came to the city with Daniel in mind. Obliterated swiftly, of course, before they attempted to test Daniel's fledgling might.
There's the killing Daniel himself thing also, but who cares about that, right?
"You are quite active for a man your age," Armand answers instead. The girl behind him hisses through her teeth and thinks wow, rude little twink. The boy next to her wonders if he's flirting, which is a fair enough assessment given Armand is not quite able to hide the intensity of his gaze.
He blames the bond for the ease he feels to finally be before his fledgling. Surely the mysterious maker-fledgling bond is to blame for the draw and sway Daniel has over him and nothing else.
He offers a thin lipped smile. "The ending." Badum tish. "How remarkable the narrator survived despite it all."
Still writing. And then he's not, book shutting with a snap without letting ~*Rashid*~ see what he wrote. Though he leaves it there in front of him, one hand on top of it. Continuing to hold it hostage.
It does sort of sound like flirting. The boy behind Armand is wondering about grandpa kink, and if it's possible for Professional Crazy Person Daniel Molloy to have sex without viagra, or actually, what's viagra sex even like? Maybe he'll ask. Maybe he'll see him at a hotel bar later. Daniel almost starts laughing. Sure, kid, why not.
"I didn't," he says, instead of commenting on telepathic comedy. "I got murdered. I'm a vampire now."
The most annoying thing about this conversation by far is the singular moment Armand's lips nearly quirk in a genuine way at 'cold therapy.' It's the faintest flicker of his expression before he shifts it to a show smile instead. The girl behind him is starting to get a touch frustrated at how long this conversation is taking. The boy Armand imagines will be Daniel's dinner if he does see him at the bar.
If Daniel slept with him then he'd end up Armand's dinner, which is a normal response that will not be examined. Just cleaning up after the fledgling, as a deadbeat maker does.
"My deepest condolences then," Armand answers with a frankly awe inspiring deadpan. "Truly the world is lesser for this tragedy of journalistic integrity lost to gothic horror."
He lifts a hand, a silent command for the book. Daniel got him, now he's curious to read whatever nonsense he wrote.
Maybe he will fuck that kid. Maybe he's already slept with men since being transformed and Armand has just missed it, or maybe doing it just to spite his maker will make it thrilling enough that Daniel will find it easier to get over his internal hurdles. That kid's younger than both of his children, but who cares? He's a disgusting old man and he will be forever, thanks to Armand. Might as well embrace it.
"It's a real shame," he agrees.
This, he says with a slight, pointed tone. Because it is a loss, even if Daniel's happy being a monster.
He does also finally fork over the internally defaced book. Armand is shuffled off, and Daniel goes back to chatting and signing. A little funny gossip, with those who overheard their exchange, and he does allow himself to flirt with the much-too-young boy (to his female companion's scandalized amusement). It has the air of joking around, but also, he's a celebrity in a hedonism spiral. So maybe it isn't a joke.
(Inside of Armand's very own personalized copy,
To you, of many names but one person. I hope you liked your edit. Thanks for showing up. This is the last stop I'll follow you to. You decide what your own next step is.
In a way Armand is glad to hear that pointed tone, even if he glances away with a hint of shame. Killing Daniel means little to him- damning him to this existence is another matter. At times he thinks it should never have been done. More often than not it feels inevitable. When he's in front of Daniel like this he cannot imagine anything other than this horrific outcome. Their story is all horror, from start to finish. Walking in hell together, etc.
He takes the book, one last long look before vanishing. Actually away to lick his wounds, probably for the best. Reading and reading the little note, reading the whole book again, throwing it in a fit of anger against a wall before placing it carefully on an end table. Normal stuff.
No contact, which could be an answer. A new city, no sign of him on one signing but the next day there's a familiar face in the back row of a reading. Legs crossed, tshirt and jeans and sneakers and a hoodie. Contacts still, watching as the bookstore workers fumble with piles of books and the eager mass of people questioning which section he's going to read. Young people joking they hope it's a raunchy one. More solemn, obsessive fans irritated by the tongue in cheek ones. Not a single one believing a word of what they read beyond metaphor and historical fantasy.
Daniel doesn't end up fucking the kid. He fucks a woman in her 40s named Connie, whose dead husband was even older than Daniel; an ex-gold digger and true crazy person who's shown up to more than one book signing in more than one state, who Daniel doesn't mind. This is his hookup pool now, and frankly, he's just happy to have one. He hasn't quite figured out how to feed from mortals and not kill them, but he practices. (Not on hookups.)
He tries to put Armand out of his mind. Screwing around helps.
"Nice to see you again, Fake Rashid."
Anyway, hi. Surprise. Daniel hadn't tried to sneak up on him, but he happened to be taking a phone call in the staff room. Sunglasses on, tinted like they might be those fancy-for-poor-people transition lenses, though the gleam of something unearthly amber is hinted at behind them. Contacts are tacky.
"I remember you from Boston. Feel like helping me with something? I'm torn on a matter."
Such sunglasses are tacky, Armand thinks. Maybe not in so many words but when he meets Daniel's eyes that hint of orange underneath sends a sick sort of thrill down his spine. With his big, brown tacky contacts his glance upwards has a softer edge. Fitting of the young thing here to meet some literary or journalistic hero.
"I never imagined you the indecisive sort, Mr. Molloy," he answers, tilting his head. Human skin pulled on tight and just as flawed a disguise as it was in Dubai with just a few holes poked through. "I would be happy to help."
Sure. At the moment he's watching Daniel intently, taking in his color to decide if he's been feeding enough. Leaning in just a touch, unable to resist with how his heart begins to match Daniel's pace. At least one person clocks him for wanting to take grandpa for a ride and hey, they aren't exactly wrong, just about who is actually the grandpa here.
Maybe, if Daniel found his big brown eyes at all convincing, if he found the casual college kid look to be the peak of attraction, he'd like the costume more. But Armand knows that even in that first week in Dubai, Daniel had looked at Fake Rashid, and sure he wanted to fuck him, but more than that, wanted to know what his problem was. (And the desire to fuck him was just a fleeting, nonsense fantasy anyway, like someone imagining what it might be like to fly a space ship. 69 years old and suffering from Parkinson's, sex was distant in the rear view mirror. He hadn't even jacked off to thinking about it, because he'd have never maintained an erection, much less finish. Anyway. Point is: "Electronic Mailbox"???)
He smiles. Happy to be helped, in turn.
"It's for you, technically." A joke coming on, because this isn't actual flirting. A setup. A plural you. "What bit do you think I should read, today?"
If it feels like punishment for showing up, well. Could be. Or Daniel is learning from his maker, and poking at him like a bug in a jar.
Several people overhearing this have little flares of jealousy. Armand ducks his head to seem suitably shocked and pleased by this, nervous edged as he assumes some foolish young thing would be in this situation. Pulls up his book, bought fresh at the same store like many others were. Never let it be said he didn't contribute to his fledging's bottom line.
"You've put me on the spot, Mr. Molloy." Purposely. There's part of Armand that is proud of that in some warped, nonsensical way. Hardly the cut of Daniel's cold sliver, but still. "Surely you don't enjoy making your fans squirm."
Still he opens his book, holding it out to a particular page. Waits for Daniel to take it, and if he does lets their fingers brush in a way several people would catch with varying reactions. A returned punishment, or bug in jar poking. Or maybe he just wants to touch, given his gaze lingers on Daniel's hands for a moment longer than it should.
It's a surprisingly tame section he points out. Armand does consider seeing if he'd read one of Louis' nauseating descriptions of fucking Lestat, but he's suffered through hearing them firsthand and has no particular interest in revisiting. No, it's just an introspective part, more Daniel's voice than many other pages. Likely cut and pruned down by the Talamasca to the point of being trivial, but a throughline about the nature of the monstrous when brought to light.
A part of him had been worried that Armand would not react well to his threat to stop following him. A large part. But practically, Daniel can't spend all his time chasing after Armand, romantic as that sounds. What would they call it, in a book about their lives? A chapter entitled The Chase? Got a ring to it, but Daniel's not a child anymore. He has a career, and he has the last few years of his public life to live.
And besides. He's found Armand. Multiple times. As far as Daniel's concerned, he's won.
Yet—
Still, the worry. Soothed by his maker's presence. There's something smug about Daniel again, like Armand showing up here is as good as Daniel finding him in the first place. Maybe it is.
"I'm surprised," he admits. "But I like it. If nobody else does, that's on you. I'm just along for the ride."
Daniel keeps the book, and heads to the front. A reading, then some questions posed by a bookshop employee enjoying an evening playing moderator, then, once more: signing.
"It is your writing. I should hope every detail and scene is one you stand behind." It's a little jab at whatever heinous edits the Talamasca made him make, that is the joke. He watches Daniel head to the front, fingers curling, debating the idea of vanishing. Daniel's smugness should be answered by that, and yet he finds himself pleased by it. That Daniel finds goading his returned presence a prize.
Twink's got it down bad for grandpa, a boy nearby thinks. Armand resists the urge to pierce the boy's mind in senseless irritation before the takes a seat to watch the reading.
He ends up on the line, despite his better sense. For a few moments he considers going to the bookshop's little cafe and waiting to see if Daniel would join him when he was done, a truncated form of the chase before. No, he finds he wants to see what Daniel writes this time. The playacting is meaningless noise, camouflage, but the note means something.
Which is why he places the book on Daniel's table when it's his turn. Some were disappointed it wasn't a more daring, intense or sexier scene read. Armand's big brown eyes make it look like he is so genuinely sorry about that. Really.
Another new book. Daniel smiles, a silent thank-you for the continued support. How many does Armand have? He'd sent an early copy to one of the lawyers he found connected to Armand, back before they'd cornered one another, but he has no idea if it ever made it into his possession. Maybe it will someday, when Armand remembers he has one account or the other.
He slides the book to himself. Cracks it open. Picks up the marker.
"I think it was a good selection," he says as he begins to write. "Who am I making it out to?"
Not like it matters.
(Roses are red Violets are blue I always think of this one song from a cartoon movie from the 60s when this rhyme happens. Judy Garland is a cat getting sex trafficked. Roses can be red Violets are violet It's nice to see you again.
"Rashid," Armand answers easily. Saying 'Armand' this time could be amusing, maybe with time to settle. This book has his name on too many minds and lips, too many opinions when he's been dead to the living world for centuries. The horror of being perceived even in shallow, stunted ways, etc etc.
He shouldn't be here. Daniel is a damning creature already, tempting him with games, the lure of the chase. Tempting his curiosity, a weakness and strength both. He leans unabashedly to read the message, a slow blink as he processes it.
Juvenile. He isn't sure if this cartoon movie reference is meant to be a pointed insult of some personal sort. Trite, ridiculous from a writer of Daniel's caliber, and the last line his eyes linger on. It should be ineffective, yet when he pulls the book to himself he runs his finger over the last line. Stupid, stupid boy.
So, probably not particularly shocking when he turns and leaves without saying a word. Some real spooked cat behavior, ignoring the few pointed thoughts of rude for how he slips away without even a thank you. Of course then the next book signing follows the day after, all set up for another long stretch of Armand shaped silence as he copes through petulant avoidance and centuries wary skewed perception of time. Instead he's sitting at the table Daniel's meant to be signing at, any employee who walks over suddenly turning around as if remembering something else.
Ramones t-shirt and worn jeans this time, boots and loose curls around his face with no contacts this time. Most might think ah, there's no higher purpose to these choices, but the costume choice of a former theater director is never pointless. So, symbolic, overblown lack of contacts and a reflection of Daniel's old aesthetic. What could this mind game possibly mean.
Does it have to be an insult? Can't he just think of a weird cat movie? Or are they not allowed to joke about sexual abuse. Maybe not. There's quite a lot of it between them. When weighted, Armand wins the misery prize by a longshot, though Daniel's is in comparatively recent memory. He could make a funny story out of his worst experiences, probably. The kind of funny story only people who have brutally compartmentalized themselves can tell.
But still funny, he'd say. (Because it was him.)
He said he wasn't going to follow Armand again. Does Armand believe him? Does Armand know that Daniel is definitely lying? It's only the sense he's developed, this ability to know his maker is nearby, that keeps him from cancelling the next day.
A pause, as he comes in. Messenger bag over his shoulder, phone in hand, answering texts to his assistant, ignoring texts from Raglan. A vampire. A costume. For a brief insane moment he wonders if Armand stole the shirt from his own closet— but when would he have time? He looks at him, stopped there two yards away, and does not wonder what this mind game means. He doesn't think it's a game. He thinks it's Armand silently asking him if he's doing it right this time. Even if Armand doesn't know what's what it is.
Daniel puts his phone in his bag, and moves to the table. Walks behind it as he sets his bag down, takes a few steps towards the 'young man' sitting there, until he's close enough to touch his shoulder, which he does. And then he bends and kisses the top of his head.
In truth he didn't find the comment offensive, even if he dissected the intended meaning and settled on insult being a high contender. Even as an insult it's rather refreshing in a fucked up, masochistic sort of way. No kid gloves, none of Louis' coddling modern Catholic guilt mournfulness then turned knife sharp and vicious under the right influence. Almost funny, especially given he finds and watches the movie that night.
Not that he'll admit it, yet. No, that throw away line isn't what captures his attention anyway. The last line he's fixated on to an absurd and likely pointless degree. It's why he's here now, in a way, regarding Daniel with a tilt of the head and, for once, all eyes averted from them by force. No quirky little mental comments about their age, their behavior, just them ignored in a bustling little book shop.
It's easier to imagine it all as a game, watching Daniel approach, the pause as he registers Armand at all. A game until Daniel comes over and kisses the top of his head in way that leaves Armand speechless for a moment. Casual, natural affection that is surely mockery, followed by no mockery at all. It makes Armand want to pin him to the table and drain him again only to feed him everything Armand is right back. It makes him want to make Daniel crawl for his blood, the red line of it between them like an unbreakable, blasphemous connection.
He stares up at Daniel with big, wide eyes for a stunned moment, even if the thrum of their bond could only be called ravenously possessive. "You were nearly late. Half the staff believe your insistence on night signings is absurd pageantry."
No lenses. Daniel likes it. Armand is beautiful, yes, but there's always something unsettling about him; better this way, when it's obvious. He rubs affectionate circles into his shoulder where his hand still rests, finding himself drawn to contact, pulled by that undercurrent of hungry attachment he can feel from the elder vampire.
Yes. Good. An animal part of himself curls around that feeling, the thread that connects them. The only unbreakable thing he's ever had in his life.
(Maybe they can do that later. The blood thing.)
"Yeah, my Uber got stuck behind a Tesla that gave up because it couldn't tell that an empty coffee cup wasn't a traffic light."
What a fascinating modern world they live in, huh? Daniel ends up sitting down next to Armand, and he can't help the contented feeling he radiates. It's nice to see you again. It was. It is. Daniel wants to hang out with him, annoy the shit out of him, dissect his freak brain, get smothered by boa constrictor cuddling in the afternoons.
Armand's eyes light up a little at that description- yes, a fascinating modern world, and he's always had a bit of a weak spot for the relentless progress of technology. Electric cars are less interesting to him than the absurd navigational systems, but that's neither here nor there. An enjoyable afternoon could be spent splitting one of those hideous cars open to see what it's overpriced guts looked like.
Anyway. "Traveling by foot would be safer, and better practice for managing the shifting currents of time around you." Translation: practice your speedy vampire shit more and don't get into a Tesla related car crash. Fire and all that. Another person goes glassy eyed when they get close, turning and nearly running into a shelf.
"I could be persuaded. As they say, what's in it for me?" he asks, leaning a touch closer where they sit.
Does he look interested in the car, the mechanical malfunction, or the idea of a mortal trapped inside like a Sims character dying in a closet when the door's been deleted? Daniel wonders about it, and then wonders at himself that none of those options are repulsive. A quick transition he's made into this unlife, caring so little about the people who were until very recently his human peers. But he's always been an asshole.
"A piano could fall on me, on foot."
Food for thought. He's out here in the wild, basically anything can go wrong. Might as well take a cab if he's going to check his email on the ride over.
But anyway. He looks at Armand, and considers what might tempt his interest (more than it's already obviously tempted), and further, what might be the worst possible thing to try. There's always the wildcard option, which would be a cop-out with anyone else, but with Armand, would be like putting his entire head into an open crocodile mouth.
"I'll let you pick what we do after. No promises that I won't complain. But I'll cooperate."
Daniel doesn't need Armand's help, here. He's not trying to bribe him for his vital assistance. He's just giving this ticket out because he's reckless and he wants Armand to stick around.
"You would survive that easily. A car crash could burst into flames and spread your ashes to the fetid crevices of this city," Armand answers without missing a beat. There's a sliver of displeasure in him though at the ugly reminder of it- there's a world out there that could devour Daniel. A strong fledgling, a healthy fledgling, one that does not eat rats and vermin or kill foolishly to the point of choking a river with corpses. A fledgling that does him credit despite Daniel's tendency towards poor behavior, even if several old laws would have him burned for Daniel's creation.
Heresy, one Daniel taunts at every turn. Poor behavior, as mentioned. Yes, that world too intent to take Daniel away in any number of ways.
He stews a little, at least until Daniel's offered payment snaps his attention with all the interest of a shark scenting blood in the water. Free reign is a dangerous thing to offer, Daniel knows it's a dangerous thing to offer, and that fact is what tempts him more.
"Hm," Armand answers, a few long moments before he tilts his head in the affirmative. "Very well."
The intricate rituals to just spend time together and have future plans, etc.
One of those 'yeah whatever' death scenarios, for Daniel. A car crash could also kill a mortal. He should be compassionately euthanized by now, and this is borrowed time. Free years. The mindless fun afterparty. He doesn't give a fuck about dying.
(... Doesn't he? Sometimes he thinks about how long Armand waited to make a fledgling. Maybe he would just compartmentalize Daniel's demise away like he has everything else, if there was even very much to compartmentalize. But maybe it would be bad. Bad enough that Daniel wouldn't want to risk it.)
A smile, then. He knew Armand would accept, but it still feels nice.
"Deal."
He doesn't lean in, but shifts just slightly, like he might be about to. Like he might be considering closing the gap of space between them and stealing a kiss. He doesn't. A tease, or indecision? The world will never know. He slides a hand onto Armand's knee instead.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(frozen comment) housekeeping—
shipping picture prompts.
book signings
The first city nothing, but the second he lingers, hands stuffed in a old coat he must have stolen from a victim given the style is nothing like the sleek look of Dubai's wardrobe. Perfectly cryptid, blink and he's gone sort of theatrics he would claim isn't drama yet still times too perfectly to be anything but.
It's the third city, Boston, that near the end of the line a familiar young man comes up and slaps his book down.
'Young' is of course a joke, though apparently Armand takes playing human seriously given the contacts are back in. More theatrics, down to the costume of any typical college boy with a hoodie and beanie, curls bursting out from beneath as he regards Daniel with thinned lips.
"A riveting story," he says plainly, somehow more sarcastic than if he kept his tone dry.
no subject
And he could go march into his marker's hideyholes. Old money safehouses and vagrant closets. He's very confident. But he doesn't. He leaves that, and sits smugly at each of his events, aware that Armand is aware. Aware that Armand can feel him, and that his maker will know that Daniel is here, Daniel has followed him, and yet Daniel is not taking that last step.
When the creepy fossil in the shitty human suit marches up to him, Daniel's smile is serene, earnest, and unbearably shit-eating.
Victory.
"Thanks!" Ungloved hands slide the book closer, spin it around, crack it open. "I'm always happy to meet another fan. Who should I make it out to?"
no subject
"Rashid," Armand answers, well aware he's already lost any ground by coming here at all. Why did he? The relentless draw, he could blame that, the tether between them he cannot sever. Distance does not choke it out, rationality does not sway it.
His smug, unbearable firstborn. "Your tour stops have been rather erratic." Thanks to Armand.
no subject
We have fun.
Daniel scrawls something out into the blank first page of the book. It does not say To Rashid, and he doesn't immediately return the tome. Holding it, and thus Armand, captive in this encounter. He's a chatty guy, it's not unusual for these things to take a while per person if he starts talking— and the lines are never all that long. His fleeting celebrity star is in a d-list constellation; sure, the book is explosive in its popularity, but he's still just a writer, just an old man.
"What was your favorite part?"
no subject
There's the killing Daniel himself thing also, but who cares about that, right?
"You are quite active for a man your age," Armand answers instead. The girl behind him hisses through her teeth and thinks wow, rude little twink. The boy next to her wonders if he's flirting, which is a fair enough assessment given Armand is not quite able to hide the intensity of his gaze.
He blames the bond for the ease he feels to finally be before his fledgling. Surely the mysterious maker-fledgling bond is to blame for the draw and sway Daniel has over him and nothing else.
He offers a thin lipped smile. "The ending." Badum tish. "How remarkable the narrator survived despite it all."
no subject
Still writing. And then he's not, book shutting with a snap without letting ~*Rashid*~ see what he wrote. Though he leaves it there in front of him, one hand on top of it. Continuing to hold it hostage.
It does sort of sound like flirting. The boy behind Armand is wondering about grandpa kink, and if it's possible for Professional Crazy Person Daniel Molloy to have sex without viagra, or actually, what's viagra sex even like? Maybe he'll ask. Maybe he'll see him at a hotel bar later. Daniel almost starts laughing. Sure, kid, why not.
"I didn't," he says, instead of commenting on telepathic comedy. "I got murdered. I'm a vampire now."
no subject
If Daniel slept with him then he'd end up Armand's dinner, which is a normal response that will not be examined. Just cleaning up after the fledgling, as a deadbeat maker does.
"My deepest condolences then," Armand answers with a frankly awe inspiring deadpan. "Truly the world is lesser for this tragedy of journalistic integrity lost to gothic horror."
He lifts a hand, a silent command for the book. Daniel got him, now he's curious to read whatever nonsense he wrote.
no subject
"It's a real shame," he agrees.
This, he says with a slight, pointed tone. Because it is a loss, even if Daniel's happy being a monster.
He does also finally fork over the internally defaced book. Armand is shuffled off, and Daniel goes back to chatting and signing. A little funny gossip, with those who overheard their exchange, and he does allow himself to flirt with the much-too-young boy (to his female companion's scandalized amusement). It has the air of joking around, but also, he's a celebrity in a hedonism spiral. So maybe it isn't a joke.
(Inside of Armand's very own personalized copy,
To you, of many names but one person. I hope you liked your edit. Thanks for showing up. This is the last stop I'll follow you to. You decide what your own next step is.
Daniel Molloy)
no subject
He takes the book, one last long look before vanishing. Actually away to lick his wounds, probably for the best. Reading and reading the little note, reading the whole book again, throwing it in a fit of anger against a wall before placing it carefully on an end table. Normal stuff.
No contact, which could be an answer. A new city, no sign of him on one signing but the next day there's a familiar face in the back row of a reading. Legs crossed, tshirt and jeans and sneakers and a hoodie. Contacts still, watching as the bookstore workers fumble with piles of books and the eager mass of people questioning which section he's going to read. Young people joking they hope it's a raunchy one. More solemn, obsessive fans irritated by the tongue in cheek ones. Not a single one believing a word of what they read beyond metaphor and historical fantasy.
no subject
He tries to put Armand out of his mind. Screwing around helps.
"Nice to see you again, Fake Rashid."
Anyway, hi. Surprise. Daniel hadn't tried to sneak up on him, but he happened to be taking a phone call in the staff room. Sunglasses on, tinted like they might be those fancy-for-poor-people transition lenses, though the gleam of something unearthly amber is hinted at behind them. Contacts are tacky.
"I remember you from Boston. Feel like helping me with something? I'm torn on a matter."
no subject
"I never imagined you the indecisive sort, Mr. Molloy," he answers, tilting his head. Human skin pulled on tight and just as flawed a disguise as it was in Dubai with just a few holes poked through. "I would be happy to help."
Sure. At the moment he's watching Daniel intently, taking in his color to decide if he's been feeding enough. Leaning in just a touch, unable to resist with how his heart begins to match Daniel's pace. At least one person clocks him for wanting to take grandpa for a ride and hey, they aren't exactly wrong, just about who is actually the grandpa here.
no subject
He smiles. Happy to be helped, in turn.
"It's for you, technically." A joke coming on, because this isn't actual flirting. A setup. A plural you. "What bit do you think I should read, today?"
If it feels like punishment for showing up, well. Could be. Or Daniel is learning from his maker, and poking at him like a bug in a jar.
no subject
"You've put me on the spot, Mr. Molloy." Purposely. There's part of Armand that is proud of that in some warped, nonsensical way. Hardly the cut of Daniel's cold sliver, but still. "Surely you don't enjoy making your fans squirm."
Still he opens his book, holding it out to a particular page. Waits for Daniel to take it, and if he does lets their fingers brush in a way several people would catch with varying reactions. A returned punishment, or bug in jar poking. Or maybe he just wants to touch, given his gaze lingers on Daniel's hands for a moment longer than it should.
It's a surprisingly tame section he points out. Armand does consider seeing if he'd read one of Louis' nauseating descriptions of fucking Lestat, but he's suffered through hearing them firsthand and has no particular interest in revisiting. No, it's just an introspective part, more Daniel's voice than many other pages. Likely cut and pruned down by the Talamasca to the point of being trivial, but a throughline about the nature of the monstrous when brought to light.
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And besides. He's found Armand. Multiple times. As far as Daniel's concerned, he's won.
Yet—
Still, the worry. Soothed by his maker's presence. There's something smug about Daniel again, like Armand showing up here is as good as Daniel finding him in the first place. Maybe it is.
"I'm surprised," he admits. "But I like it. If nobody else does, that's on you. I'm just along for the ride."
Daniel keeps the book, and heads to the front. A reading, then some questions posed by a bookshop employee enjoying an evening playing moderator, then, once more: signing.
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Twink's got it down bad for grandpa, a boy nearby thinks. Armand resists the urge to pierce the boy's mind in senseless irritation before the takes a seat to watch the reading.
He ends up on the line, despite his better sense. For a few moments he considers going to the bookshop's little cafe and waiting to see if Daniel would join him when he was done, a truncated form of the chase before. No, he finds he wants to see what Daniel writes this time. The playacting is meaningless noise, camouflage, but the note means something.
Which is why he places the book on Daniel's table when it's his turn. Some were disappointed it wasn't a more daring, intense or sexier scene read. Armand's big brown eyes make it look like he is so genuinely sorry about that. Really.
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He slides the book to himself. Cracks it open. Picks up the marker.
"I think it was a good selection," he says as he begins to write. "Who am I making it out to?"
Not like it matters.
(Roses are red
Violets are blue
I always think of this one song from a cartoon movie from the 60s when this rhyme happens. Judy Garland is a cat getting sex trafficked.
Roses can be red
Violets are violet
It's nice to see you again.
DM)
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He shouldn't be here. Daniel is a damning creature already, tempting him with games, the lure of the chase. Tempting his curiosity, a weakness and strength both. He leans unabashedly to read the message, a slow blink as he processes it.
Juvenile. He isn't sure if this cartoon movie reference is meant to be a pointed insult of some personal sort. Trite, ridiculous from a writer of Daniel's caliber, and the last line his eyes linger on. It should be ineffective, yet when he pulls the book to himself he runs his finger over the last line. Stupid, stupid boy.
So, probably not particularly shocking when he turns and leaves without saying a word. Some real spooked cat behavior, ignoring the few pointed thoughts of rude for how he slips away without even a thank you. Of course then the next book signing follows the day after, all set up for another long stretch of Armand shaped silence as he copes through petulant avoidance and centuries wary skewed perception of time. Instead he's sitting at the table Daniel's meant to be signing at, any employee who walks over suddenly turning around as if remembering something else.
Ramones t-shirt and worn jeans this time, boots and loose curls around his face with no contacts this time. Most might think ah, there's no higher purpose to these choices, but the costume choice of a former theater director is never pointless. So, symbolic, overblown lack of contacts and a reflection of Daniel's old aesthetic. What could this mind game possibly mean.
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But still funny, he'd say. (Because it was him.)
He said he wasn't going to follow Armand again. Does Armand believe him? Does Armand know that Daniel is definitely lying? It's only the sense he's developed, this ability to know his maker is nearby, that keeps him from cancelling the next day.
A pause, as he comes in. Messenger bag over his shoulder, phone in hand, answering texts to his assistant, ignoring texts from Raglan. A vampire. A costume. For a brief insane moment he wonders if Armand stole the shirt from his own closet— but when would he have time? He looks at him, stopped there two yards away, and does not wonder what this mind game means. He doesn't think it's a game. He thinks it's Armand silently asking him if he's doing it right this time. Even if Armand doesn't know what's what it is.
Daniel puts his phone in his bag, and moves to the table. Walks behind it as he sets his bag down, takes a few steps towards the 'young man' sitting there, until he's close enough to touch his shoulder, which he does. And then he bends and kisses the top of his head.
"Hey."
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Not that he'll admit it, yet. No, that throw away line isn't what captures his attention anyway. The last line he's fixated on to an absurd and likely pointless degree. It's why he's here now, in a way, regarding Daniel with a tilt of the head and, for once, all eyes averted from them by force. No quirky little mental comments about their age, their behavior, just them ignored in a bustling little book shop.
It's easier to imagine it all as a game, watching Daniel approach, the pause as he registers Armand at all. A game until Daniel comes over and kisses the top of his head in way that leaves Armand speechless for a moment. Casual, natural affection that is surely mockery, followed by no mockery at all. It makes Armand want to pin him to the table and drain him again only to feed him everything Armand is right back. It makes him want to make Daniel crawl for his blood, the red line of it between them like an unbreakable, blasphemous connection.
He stares up at Daniel with big, wide eyes for a stunned moment, even if the thrum of their bond could only be called ravenously possessive. "You were nearly late. Half the staff believe your insistence on night signings is absurd pageantry."
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Yes. Good. An animal part of himself curls around that feeling, the thread that connects them. The only unbreakable thing he's ever had in his life.
(Maybe they can do that later. The blood thing.)
"Yeah, my Uber got stuck behind a Tesla that gave up because it couldn't tell that an empty coffee cup wasn't a traffic light."
What a fascinating modern world they live in, huh? Daniel ends up sitting down next to Armand, and he can't help the contented feeling he radiates. It's nice to see you again. It was. It is. Daniel wants to hang out with him, annoy the shit out of him, dissect his freak brain, get smothered by boa constrictor cuddling in the afternoons.
"Feel like supervising?"
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Anyway. "Traveling by foot would be safer, and better practice for managing the shifting currents of time around you." Translation: practice your speedy vampire shit more and don't get into a Tesla related car crash. Fire and all that. Another person goes glassy eyed when they get close, turning and nearly running into a shelf.
"I could be persuaded. As they say, what's in it for me?" he asks, leaning a touch closer where they sit.
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"A piano could fall on me, on foot."
Food for thought. He's out here in the wild, basically anything can go wrong. Might as well take a cab if he's going to check his email on the ride over.
But anyway. He looks at Armand, and considers what might tempt his interest (more than it's already obviously tempted), and further, what might be the worst possible thing to try. There's always the wildcard option, which would be a cop-out with anyone else, but with Armand, would be like putting his entire head into an open crocodile mouth.
"I'll let you pick what we do after. No promises that I won't complain. But I'll cooperate."
Daniel doesn't need Armand's help, here. He's not trying to bribe him for his vital assistance. He's just giving this ticket out because he's reckless and he wants Armand to stick around.
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Heresy, one Daniel taunts at every turn. Poor behavior, as mentioned. Yes, that world too intent to take Daniel away in any number of ways.
He stews a little, at least until Daniel's offered payment snaps his attention with all the interest of a shark scenting blood in the water. Free reign is a dangerous thing to offer, Daniel knows it's a dangerous thing to offer, and that fact is what tempts him more.
"Hm," Armand answers, a few long moments before he tilts his head in the affirmative. "Very well."
The intricate rituals to just spend time together and have future plans, etc.
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One of those 'yeah whatever' death scenarios, for Daniel. A car crash could also kill a mortal. He should be compassionately euthanized by now, and this is borrowed time. Free years. The mindless fun afterparty. He doesn't give a fuck about dying.
(... Doesn't he? Sometimes he thinks about how long Armand waited to make a fledgling. Maybe he would just compartmentalize Daniel's demise away like he has everything else, if there was even very much to compartmentalize. But maybe it would be bad. Bad enough that Daniel wouldn't want to risk it.)
A smile, then. He knew Armand would accept, but it still feels nice.
"Deal."
He doesn't lean in, but shifts just slightly, like he might be about to. Like he might be considering closing the gap of space between them and stealing a kiss. He doesn't. A tease, or indecision? The world will never know. He slides a hand onto Armand's knee instead.
"Ready?"
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