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.
Given Armand's obsessive guardianship of Louis as his mental health it's a very good thing he isn't aware of Daniel's general thoughts on his own survival here. Nothing like Louis, yes, but Armand hasn't been killing vampires in the cities Daniel's spending time in because he's capable of losing his first and only fledgling gracefully. Or potentially at all.
He eyes Daniel's smile, the answer to Armand's agreement, then the way Daniel almost seems to lean in. His hand on Armand's knee, the quiet intimacy of this little moment. He's enough in the moment itself he doesn't think of turning around the mortals walking by, including the bookshop worker who stops nearby to stand in awkward silence, unsure of interrupting and why the author is so cozy with a random young man.
Armand's fingers brush up Daniel's knuckles to his wrist. "Quite," he answers, before finally turning his attention to woman. She clears her throat awkwardly before introducing herself, stuttering through the schedule, before finally glancing to Armand and asking who he is as politely as she could manage.
Armand turns his gaze to Daniel again, a faint quirk to his lips as he tilts his head, waiting for Daniel to answer that for him. A little joke, how many times Daniel has asked for his name for these signings, curious to see what he decides to answer. Rashid, the assistant. Perhaps a question dismissed entirely.
Daniel isn't suicidal. He wants to live forever. He just understands it's unlikely, and thus, isn't willing to sacrifice the enjoyment of living life for the paranoia of prolonging it. Whatever happens, happens. I like my life. I have a thing in the city. He'll always like it, he'll always have a thing in the city.
(He'll always go back to the apartment with the potential serial killer offering him drugs.)
Armand touches his wrist. He thinks of his maker's fans there. It makes his pulse tick up, but it's gentle, happy. Pleased in a surprisingly innocent way to have him here, even while he's perfectly aware that he's volunteered himself to end up in a fucking iron maiden or whatever later. He smiles at him, and then has to turn his attention to the assistant manager who's just trying to do her job. A predicament Daniel sympathizes with, but not enough to shuffle this encounter away into nothingness.
"This is Armand," he says, "my assistant for the day."
And that's that. She does not immediately think It's some guy cosplaying as a book character, because Armand is a real name. ('Lestat' would have been a red flag.) Not yet, anyway. Those coming to get their books signed might start to notice, particularly if they do anything besides sit stoically beside each other.
Not much of a chat, today, it's not that kind of event, though he may entertain some questions from individual signature-seekers, some of which are beginning to mill around now that they aren't being psychically herded elsewhere.
Armand's head tilts, the only give away he didn't expect that answer. It's not terribly shocking for a variety of reasons and it pleases Armand more than he would have expected. He should potentially tell Daniel he should be more careful with identity, his human life in it's last years before he will need to fake his own death, but-
Well, Daniel is choosing Armand to be at his side rather than Rashid or some other, easier name. His fingers stroke over Daniel's wrist one last time before offering the woman a charming smile.
He stays where he is as the first people come up, leaning back to eye those who show up and scan their thoughts vigilantly. There's a vampire far down the line interestingly enough, though when Armand dips into her thoughts she seems genuinely here for the signing and debating if she should flee as she senses Armand close. It would be easier if he could speak to Daniel in his mind but there is something to how he has to lean over and murmur close to his ear instead.
"You've made fans of our kind," he offers, both agitated and amused by this idea. Getting so close to Daniel sets off the thoughts of several people in line, all gossip and curiosity that Armand seems to enjoy in his own way, given he rests an arm around Daniel's chair so he can keep their conspiratorial proximity a little longer.
To Paulito, thanks for the support, to Julie, tell your mom thank you, to Josh, keep your eyes peeled at night. Daniel's hand doesn't tremble, he doesn't worry about his tendons getting too tired after a dozen notes. He's social and chatty with everyone, even though he's not an especially social person, when he's boiled down. But there are elements of celebrity, fifteen minutes of fame, and more than that, elements of fucking freedom.
And tonight, there's an element of having Armand here, sitting so close to him.
"Oh yeah?" turns to converse privately, the next patron standing with their book in hand, waiting to address him. "You know they'll notice. That okay?"
He tips his head down enough to look at Armand over the top edge of his glasses, eyes as amber-orange as his maker's. Maybe it's not that easy, maybe no one will see them together and go Oh, Molloy's definitely a vampire, oh, wow, Molloy's definitely a vampire and his maker is Armand.
The poor nervous patron waiting with their book, unsure if they're allowed to interrupt this private conversation or what book signing etiquette is and wow, he just caught a sliver of a glimpse of Daniel Molloy's eyes, were they always so striking and a little strange?
"Notice what you are? Notice we are together or that you are mine?" Armand almost looks delighted by this question, as if it were a deeply amusing thing Daniel has asked him. Largely because yes, they no doubt already know given Armand's made it very clear in several cities with any brewing tension that the fledgling Daniel Molloy was not be harmed. On occasion that took very graphic examples being made. Some people pick up new hobbies when they get divorced, which is surely just what this is, probably.
"They already know it, if they have any sense. As they do not appear to be here to cause you harm I assume they have as much sense as any fan of yours does."
It's one thing for Armand to be a weird, fixated freak in private. (And Daniel, innocent babypire that he is, has no idea about the murders of other vampires in his orbit.) Another for Armand to gleefully embrace the idea of being out about it.
Him? Some fucking old guy? He's not thinking about the further destruction of his own mortal reputation, fooling about with a man who looks so much younger. He's thinking about Armand broadcasting to the undead world that he transformed an annoying old journalist who then went on to expose them. But Armand is cool with it. With him. With people knowing, alive people and dead people.
His expression is painfully young. Happy but a little embarrassed for being that happy. Almost shy. Really?
"Alright."
Next patron. Daniel smiles up at them, and signs for the name given, chats a bit about the proposed translation into Afrikaans.
The look surprises Armand, shuts him up for a few precious moments as Daniel turns back to talk to another fan with another question, request, well of admiration. Background noise easily ignored, the now fairly steadfast thrum of wondering at Armand's age, their relation, self righteous judgment or what they see as a predatory dynamic for all the wrong reasons.
No, there's just Armand watching Daniel a moment longer. He expected rolled eyes or reminders Armand did not own him. Another little debate on old vampiric terminology, snide remarks that Armand didn't make him beyond a fucked up blood transfusion. Perhaps regret at the end, bitterness, his reputation being dragged through the dirt of assumption. Always something, he's found, that makes Armand unideal to claim publicly. His waning power as maitre, old laws, the color of his skin in Venice.
Daniel's face looked more at ease than Armand can remember seeing it, if only for a brief moment. It's pretty in a new facet of Daniel, the appeal of hard, sharp edges finally softening in stellar contrast. When Armand finally pulls his eyes away he realizes with twitch of his fingers his heart is threatening to pick up. How easy it is to fall in love with Daniel, a matter nipping at his ankles for some time, even if he's done a resoundingly good job in avoiding it. The first time in perhaps his entire existence he claimed someone and they looked upon him like that was a wondrous thing.
The vampire gets closer- older than Daniel but young, and Armand fixes his gaze upon her in unblinking severity. One hand stays behind Daniel's chair, nails at the back of his neck. A woman nearby wonders how much Daniel pays this kid, another wonders if bestsellers really give a guy that much game. The vampire bows her head in nervous respect to Armand before trying to avoid looking at him entirely. Thanks Daniel for the book in a way that sounds quite genuine. Says it was very informative and helpful. That he's brave to write it.
Daniel won't be hurt, in the long run, if he's just something that Armand did half out of impulse and half to try and tie himself to Louis. Not because it doesn't hurt, to be incidental and unimportant, but because he's used to being temporary for other people. No one stays, and everyone who tries hopes they'll make him different by staying, because there's nothing tolerable about Daniel as he is.
Right now, he feels like Armand's happy that he's his fledgling. Not for any fucked up kink reason, or because he wants to make Louis angry, or because he lost it when Daniel pulled the rug out from under the feet of his life in Dubai. Just because he thought Daniel was worth keeping around.
He knows it's a fantasy. Nobody feels that way about him, and that's fine, Daniel wouldn't keep himself around either. But it's nice, and it's especially nice right here, doing this thing, a part of his career, and even though it's a goofy part, Daniel's career means a lot to him. And Armand is sharing a piece of it with him.
Daniel smiles widely at the vampire who shows up, and is excited to talk to her, his appreciation genuine. He's met so few others, just listens in at night. He even forges to feel self-conscious about his appearance, made content through Armand's presence. Good enough for his maker, good enough for everyone else, too. Telepathically, he and the woman vampire agree to stay in touch, and wish each other well as she takes her leave.
Surely it's tangible in the bond: he's happy, he's appreciative, he's content. His presence curls up against Armand's, tangled in that silver thread, holding him close even as he laughs with a fan about her t-shirt about fangbangs and signs her book.
It takes more self restraint than Armand would care to admit not to scare the little vampire off. To say he's been territorial is an understatement but now, in the throes of this warm and undeniable feeling of intimacy with Daniel, he may be just a little worse than before. If it wasn't for the distracting, pleasant buzz of Daniel through their bond he might have lost the war with his own possessive instincts.
Luckily for the well meaning fledgling she gets the time to chat and make this connection while Armand basks in Daniel's contentment. Maybe it's primal instinct, the sheer satisfaction he feels at his fledgling happy and safe. Maybe it's refreshing after decades of Louis' consistent melancholy, bright moments always slow and pierced with a dark undercurrent. Not Daniel, whose joy is as addictive as his regard. As addictive as his anger, is self righteous fury, the sparring across long tables with an insignificant little mortal who still kept up better than any vampire ever did.
If he's honest the process of all this intrigues him too, the book signing. For all his tall talk of mortals and separation Armand's curiosity with the world has never fully wavered, the mechanics of publishing and promoting almost quaint compared to the ruthless art markets Louis pulled them through. Armand's side of the bond when examined is typically guarded, and if not that then a low thrumming tension careful vigilance. Yet in the sphere of Daniel's contented presence he thaws a little, curiosity blooming like weeds. Not calm, not safe but closer to both than he's managed in some time.
One bold young man asks who he is, and when Armand answers as Daniel did the boy laughs. "Wow, you do look like how I imagined him. Love the contacts, by the way."
Armand watches the boy go, resisting the impish urge to bear his fangs and see how far mortal denial takes them. There aren't many left in the line regardless, and he has a prize to cash in. "Your descriptions did me justice, or so it seems." He says as if he didn't read every single scrap Daniel wrote about him obsessively while also making notes in the margins.
Eventually, Daniel will hear about how Armand has killed potential threats for him, and he will wonder if it's what falling in love feels like. Eventually, Armand will get sick of Daniel. And Daniel will go in (forever) and he will wonder, and wonder, and maybe he'll go insane. Maybe that'll be the thing. Connected permanently to someone who will tire of him.
But they aren't there yet. He won't be like Armand, rushing to the resentment. He'll enjoy it for now, while he still has it, still circling in his bloodstream, his brain chemistry; for now, while he can reflect it back at Armand. He knows it'll hurt in the morning, but he knew quaaludes and coke would hurt in the morning, too.
"I'm a professional, you know. I've won awards and stuff."
And maybe Armand is compelling to write about. A secret villain, lurking behind the bombastic one being painted in the forefront. It's a good role. A shitty interview, all of Daniel's observations that cut to the truth of him having to be accessed sideways, but the weight of Louis' made up for it. Mostly. Daniel still laments all the edits forced on him by the librarian spies.
Not many left. A man younger than Daniel, but close enough to be a contemporary, is next; between a sharp memory and glancing at his surface thoughts, Daniel realizes they've bumped into each other before. It's not the first book he's signed for the guy. And when he offers a slightly self-conscious smile while handing over the new one, Daniel nearly stumbles over saying hello.
The man is thinking that he doesn't want to make assumptions about Molloy and the young man he's sitting with, but that it reminds him of the relationship that defined him. He was Armand's apparent age, once, and the love of his life looked more like Daniel (looked more like the man does now), and it's making him feel bittersweet, and nostalgic. Maybe, this man is thinking, Molloy is working through something; the same something that he's been working through since the first book of is that he read.
Daniel signs his book. Says hello, asks if they've met before. It is nice, and it is surreal; he finds himself appreciating this moment more because he can violate this man's privacy and read his mind. He finds himself hoping Armand has done the same. Sweet outlined with just a thread of horror. Salt on caramel. Better for it.
"Have you? Two awards, from what I understand," Armand drawls, watching Daniel's veins and their alluring throb at the pulse points. Armand's blood, Daniel's blood, melded together for eternity, a mark none of the humans milling about could possibly see or fathom yet hangs over Daniel like Armand's signature.
He thinks idly of it, only pulled from his musings when Daniel reacts in a different way to the man now approaching. The near stumble, enough Armand's eyes land on the man and his book with the assessment of threat only to find a mundane human man watching them with flavor of thoughts somewhat unique.
It's not as though all of the thoughts around have been scandal and self righteousness- plenty have been amused, congratulatory, or attracted one way or another. Spectacle, the pair of them huddled too close to be strictly platonic by many standards, and here is a personal flare instead. A man who sees reflection, old ghosts and older 'what-ifs,' bodies in unmarked graves. His nails scrape harmlessly down the back of Daniel's neck, fingertips lingering. Possessive but an odd moment of reflection too.
"Your time will soon belong to me," Armand says, watching this man and his bittersweet memories move away. "As we agreed."
He is joking, he is making a joke, saying this very nerdy thing will calling Armand a joke. But he has won an awful lot of awards— the Pulitzers are just the best ones to brag about, especially these days when every dickhead with a Twitter account can declare themself a journalist.
But anyway.
They're about done, here, just a few more lingering, curious parties, who are wondering if they can get a cup signed or something else, interested in the oddity of Vampire Book Nutjob, but not willing to buy a book. Any other night, Daniel may have playfully instigated something. Tonight, he doesn't even consider it. He leans an elbow on the table, looks at Armand, lens-covered eyes flicking over him. Pleased that his maker is still here. It verges on smugness, in fact.
"Making sure you hold your end of our bargain," Armand corrects, basking a little in Daniel's smugness. There's some learned instinct in him to correct the behavior, the hierachy of maker and fledgling echoed throughout hundreds of years of strict rules, then his own maker before. There's an ill fitting mask of maitre in him, one Louis played with and never understood the gravity of, not even after it was far too late.
His mood is eased enough he lets it pass- here is Daniel, coaxing him to stay. Smug he did. Addictive, being wanted or at least the heady illusion of it.
"Do you need to feed before my plans for you?" Speaking of maker instinct: the urge to coax the most rancid of those lingering around the store, like that robust man with his slow, predator heart and an ache in his knuckles from hurting something much weaker than he. Or maybe just the annoying shrill creature nearby who rolls her eyes overhearing that and thinks Daniel is too embarrassingly old for the larping, vampire schtick.
The little touches, his presence, his eagerness to do fuck-knows-what with Daniel. He shouldn't like this. He should be thinking about Louis, and put more barriers between him and Armand. But Louis' life his is own, finally, and though these optics are pretty rough, Daniel is free to make his own decisions. Good and bad.
"Don't worry, I'm not trying to weasel out of anything. My idea, remember?"
He dares to put his hand on Armand's knee again, and he appreciates both the potential for some observing party to find it grotesque, and the potential for Armand to cut his fingers off. It's like cuddling with an extremely beautiful inland taipan snake.
"Mm." Considers this, because it might very well depend on what those plans are (is he alarmed that Armand already has plans? is he excited?). Daniel is more or less always hungry, something he's been assured is just a side-effect of newness to this unlife, but he can ignore the constant internal nagging. Addict superpowers.
"Might as well."
Ultimately, he says yes mostly because he thinks it'll please Armand.
It does please Armand. He leans in a little, into the hand on knee, not so much doe eyed as uneasily intense in how he regards Daniel from under his lashes. He's torn between an odd pair of instincts, one to demand Daniel show him his hunting prowess and the other to bring the food directly to him, cut it's neck and hold it's hair as Daniel latched on.
Novel. He cared for many as coven master but the pull was a dense, drowning obligation like a shackle more times than it was not. This feeling with Daniel is oddly buoyant, and far more terrifying aside. "Fledgling appetite," Armand says with a hint of approval. "Come with me, then."
The store is winding down, the book signing already far later than it would typically allow for. Disgruntled workers eying customers clearly intent on lounging around as long as they can, said customers milling around shelves. Some fans of Daniel's lingering, though they seem intent on looking away with blank looks when Armand's eyes skim over the crowd.
He stands fluidly, hand to Daniel's shoulder as he scans the room and locks eyes on the robust man from before. "Him," he offers, eyes shifting to Daniel, waiting to see if he'll bite. Pun maybe intended.
"Someone whose disappearance I'll be questioned about given this will be the last public place he was seen in?"
Kids these days. No sense of timing with murder. Do you know how many fucking murders Daniel has accidentally solved over the course of his career, while sorting through facts and running down leads on other stories? But—
"Sure, him."
Why the fuck not. He's got money now, he can get away with whatever. Daniel stands up and grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder. Reaches out with his mind to get the measure of the man, and considers the least suspicious way to go about it.
Armand offers an obnoxious little quirk of his likes, as though Daniel is a student stumbling into an obvious lesson. "Then surely you must be creative and thorough in your disposal. It would not do to cause you trouble, given you are being so careful with our kind's secrets."
Rude. He follows though, fixated on Daniel far more than some middling mortal and those mulling about. Not that he'll make it particularly easy for Daniel, as tempted as he is to turn all eyes away from his fledgling and ensuring his safety with their kind and mortal authorities.
All matters Daniel must learn on his own, and even recognizing the danger faced here does bring Armand a sense of smug satisfaction.
Daniel leans down. Gives Armand a look over the edge of his glasses.
(Is he going to kiss him?)
"You like the book."
Lestat is the tragic villain, and Armand is the one without redemption, forever lurking in the shadows like a spider. The most frustrating role. The coolest, most fucked up role. In a book that exposes everything that Armand is supposed to hate about his existence. Louis changed his mind, didn't want it to go out; Lestat hates it. But Armand, Daniel thinks, likes the book.
He straightens back up. Time to go do a murder.
He says goodbye to the store manager, and leaves. The man is seemingly forgotten, left to mill around for minutes on his own before he exits. He turns down the street and away, going the opposite direction that Daniel went. Off to catch an Uber. He will, of course, be intercepted. And Daniel has gotten okay at detecting cameras through sound. He'll have gone to the corner store, which doesn't have great security camera coverage, and then in a few minutes, he'll be back in the corner store, having never left. This man will be in an alley, bloodless, having suffered a heart attack, or something like that. Who knows.
Armand tilts his head up as easy as breathing- not that he does much of that anymore, but still. No kiss sadly, just Daniel offering a little tidbit he's already patting himself on the back about. Theatrical, his fledgling, as though it runs down their line through their shared blood.
Armand wants to be irritated and is as he watches Daniel move. Annoyed because the idea of liking the book isn't one he's given himself time to consider and it's true. That Daniel can see that sliver of contradiction in him is annoying. That this book is an ugly death wish beneath it's grandeur is annoying. That people on the street occasionally think his name with any number colorful and insipid opinions is annoying. That it is a testament to his continued weakness and mistake is annoying.
But of course Daniel is right, the stupid, overblown whole of it is something Armand likes. He's read it again and again in varying stages of wrath, humor or dissociation. He listens to it's broad, brash ripples in the vampire community. He follows his fledgling and tells himself he must because of the damn book and its damn dangers.
He likes the way Daniel writes, infuriatingly enough. Like he's leaning in to share a secret. He loves and hates this is the first portrait of himself, in ink rather than paint, by Daniel's damning hand. A murky and ugly picture, unlike any portrait done of him before. Terrifying, to be portrayed candidly, unflatteringly, and he likes it. He likes it too much.
Armand appears at Daniel's side in the corner store, hand to Daniel's arm as if to feel the warmth of the feeding. A presence the entire time, if the pleased curl of his lips is any indication.
"The New York coven loathes you," he says like this is an attractive quality Daniel possesses, pissing them off. He plucks a pair of gaudy, cheap sunglasses from a nearby rack and looks them over as if they weren't ugly lumps of plastic.
Daniel believes that Armand wants to be seen. He wants to be seen, but he doesn't want to expose himself. Daniel has had to do quite a lot of meditating on him— like he has on Louis, and Lestat, and Claudia, dissecting them like fictional characters, like a psychologist. In the pages of the book, ones censored and edited, ones he omitted himself, is the portrait of a man who was jealously, bitterly waiting to be seen, who couldn't figure out why no one was seeing him or understanding him, who was behaving like an alien visiting from another planet, forever out of step, and lonely, and angry.
But that's just a theory. a GaMe tHeOrY
If any of it's true, Daniel gets it. Sort of. Armand was born so long ago that today must seem like an alien planet. If Daniel lives for five hundred years, and they end up living in a nice place in a little space station by Lagrange Point 2, it'll probably still bear more resemblance to 2022 than 2022 does to 1500. Armand's brain is cooked. It's soup. Fucked up, cult soup.
One of many reasons Daniel should ditch him, instead of give him a brilliant smile that's a little too toothy. Blood-warm, pleased, not too impressed with his meal on a personal level, but happy to be fed regardless.
"Fuck 'em," he says magnanimously, and then he does what he didn't do back in the book store, and leans over and kisses Armand. Right here in the shitty corner store, over a pair of cheap sunglasses, in front of the clerk and god and everybody.
Daniel's enthusiasm is doing troubling things to him, Armand decides. The toothy grin, it does not even show off his beautiful fangs but it is a reminder of them. If Armand presses he thinks he can even feel some facsimile Daniel's pleasure as a warmth in his own chest. A happy, well fed and skilled fledgling.
Armand opens his mouth to spew the script, remind Daniel of countless dangers or whatever archaic, potentially bullshit vampire etiquette that Must Be Maintained, Daniel, when Daniel leans in instead. A kiss like the one he was mildly peeved about not being granted before, in front of the clerk who squints and thinks something disparaging about May-December romances. Armand could and in his own mind should bring up something disparaging about bartering with desire, but instead he foolishly leans into the kiss instead.
His lips quirk, smothering it but making no move to be the one to pull back first. Hungry, the mistake of showing affection he can sink his teeth into and not easily let go. Even when the clerk will undoubtedly clear his throat should Armand have his way and let the little intimacy linger.
May-December, and cradle robber Armand who gets to look half exploited, half gold digging, getting pawed at by a dirty old man. Daniel remembers looking at gay couples who seemed as far apart in age as they seemed, and wondering what it was like. To want that much, and not give a fuck. It made something in him angry. He wanted to want. He wanted there to be something worth wanting.
Now he can eat people.
Armand likes the book. Armand likes this, too, Daniel thinks. He doesn't push too far, doesn't turn sharing a sweet kiss in public into the tacky mistake of actually making out in public, just shares a quick little thing there at the end before he pulls away. Lets Armand taste the blood still lingering in his mouth. He knows Armand was watching, but still: here, look, I did it. For you.
"I kinda hope you say you want to kill everybody in here," he says quietly. Just enough for the two of them. "But it'd be a pain in the ass. Maybe I can lure you to my hotel room instead. I've got a 500 piece Paul Klee jigsaw puzzle."
The fact the kiss is quick makes disappointment crack Armand's expression, the ridiculous near pout of it over a whirling, vertigo inducing depth of ugly want. A blink and he's reset, tongue over his teeth and bottom lip to chase the taste lingering there.
"As long as it is not a piece from his period in Tunis," Armand answers, running his hands over Daniel's shoulders in a way that seems both intimate and fussy, eyes just a touch brighter at how alluring he genuinely finds the idea of going to do a puzzle and nothing more. "You still owe me, but we could achieve my goals in your hotel room."
Looking at Daniel through his lashes at that, the faintest quirk to his lips.
They have things to do, they can't spend all day making out in shitty corner stores. This is what he tells himself when he catches that mean-tinged flicker of disappointment. Daniel has always wanted, never really been wanted in return, and it's still strange, disorienting, still not that believable when he catches moments of it.
Armand's wanting is so twisted as to feel true sometimes, though.
"It's fish," he informs him, about which Klee painting has been immortalized in puzzle form. Daniel has no clue if it's from whatever 'his period in Tunis' means; his art knowledge is more than a layman's, but miles behind the likes of Armand and Louis. "I know, I know. It was my idea, I'm still on board. Do you want the shades?"
"Yes," Armand answers with sudden brightness, pulling the ugly, clunky shades on as he breezes past to the register. The cashier is less than thrilled to deal with him, ringing him up with a silent sigh when Armand moves back to Daniel and links their arms. "Now tell me what one does with a puzzle when the initial entertainment component is completed and the finished work revealed. Do we do it again? Upside down, perhaps?"
He leads them out, seemingly content to stroll their way back unless Daniel points out other means of making it there much faster. He seems less than pleased at the attention Daniel occasionally draws, that double take look and thought of someone who recognizes his face from the about the author book blurb or television appearances.
Admittedly it is a novel experience to be this visible. In the theater sometimes, but his life with Louis was a far quieter thing, increasingly isolated for Louis' own good. He can already imagine Daniel's sneer if he said as much, or some quippy little comment, a matter that amuses him at the moment rather than annoy.
Daniel isn't ashamed to be out with Armand, even though he knows that all it takes is one particularly motivated, vampire-obsessed fan to post footage of them on TikTok, and in twelve hours it'll have reached Louis—
And then what? Louis left him alone with Armand. Louis walked away, and Daniel ceased to exist behind him once the door to the penthouse was closed. Daniel loves Louis, but if he pitches a fit about Armand, Daniel's not sure what he'll say. How's Lestat?, probably, which isn't kind. But oh well. They like to argue, it'll be alright.
"I think they just get broken up and go back in the box," he says. "Some people frame the ones they really like, but that was always weird to me."
And he started with puzzles to work on his motor skills when the shakes started, not because he really likes puzzles. Turns out they're nice, though, and they're good for luring in deeply fucked up 500 year old freaks.
"Is walking back alright? I wouldn't want to suggest you get into a car that might blow up with us inside."
Armand considers that with normal thought processes, such as if Daniel liked the depicted work so much Armand would hardly be against simply getting it for him. An apologetic gesture, maybe, for the deadbeat maker thing and not several other less important matters like the torture and mind wipe. Not like the Dubai penthouse didn't proudly display stolen works for the hell of it. Anything can be a date if you try hard enough, like art heists.
Daniel's a little funny. Armand refuses to roll his eyes but the spirit is there in his tone. "Walking is fine, to spare my fledgling the dangers of motor vehicles. What would this world do without Daniel Molloy to irritate tv personalities on streaming services only a handful of people own?"
Despite the the quip he seems rather pleased by the chance to walk, regarding the area with somewhat new eyes- a rarity that is delightful if not for the reason. Here is Daniel's era and world, that will one day crystalize in his mind in formative foundation, blessing and curse alike.
"Besides, it would not kill me," he sniffs. "What is an lackluster automobile to a five hundred year old vampire?"
The 60s, and 70s, and 80s.. all the way until now, a rapid, flip-book of technological progress and culture wars. It's already seemed to go by too fast for Daniel to comfortably keep up with— something he had a period of complaining about, until some guy with a George Bush hat on agreed with him, and then he dedicated himself fully to the task of maintaining familiarity with contemporary beats. Fuck that. Fuck sitting on a porch somewhere in Montana and watching the wind ruffle the tall grass, fuck thinking it's nice when time doesn't move so fast.
Just live, and like it. Or don't live, and take a nap for fifty years, and then have fun puzzles to do when you wake up. Daniel doesn't know if he'd ever be able to hibernate, but even the prospect of doing so is kind of interesting. Is it like coming out of a space ship onto a new planet after being in cryosleep, like some weird space movie? Is it like being lost in the dark? He wants to know. He wants to know everything.
Daniel pinches Armand's side for his bad joke, playful and tickling.
"Yeah, yeah, you're the coolest."
It'd be more mocking if he didn't mean it. Armand is the scariest thing in the world.
The hotel isn't too long of a walk away, but it is still a walk. But the night air is nice, and they get to be in public together, and Daniel gets to look relaxed and happy about it. The scariest thing in the world, and he's got his arm linked with Daniel's, deceptively beautiful, but horrible, a nightmare of a monster that's devoured thousands of lives. And he makes bad jokes.
Into the hotel, into the elevator, finger to button, and up.
Armand's lips tug into a faint little smirk at the reaction then stay that way as they walk. The ease is alarming, he finds himself wanting to point out every passing detail he's missed in his studies of the modern world and ask 'what is that? why is that?' It's hardly much, this minor display of ignorance, but he can recognize a shift in the fact he feels no need to guard himself, or handpick which ignorance to offer up for proper effect.
What's more is the fact he feels very little in the way of alarm at the revelation. This is his, every instinct tells him, for better or for worse. His fledgling, blood of his blood, uniquely capable of harming him but also a lone safe haven in the world.
No, perhaps not safe but still he has a place here, carved out in a form he does not yet recognize. To find the shape of it is a terrifying prospect as much as it is an alluring one, and he dwells on it until the elevator opens for them.
It isn't until they reach the room that Armand untangles, the door opening before him with a click of manipulated mechanisms in a dramatic little flourish. He's pulling out his phone, banishing the thoughts of before when he decides he will be paid back as promised, striding further in as he taps at the screen.
"Let me see your wardrobe," he orders as he tap tap taps away. "I assume you brought at least one formal attire."
To reference another thread, perhaps out-of-continuity with this one— in hell together. And sometimes it's nice to have company in hell. Armand is dismal about it, but Daniel likes it. Armand can't divorce him, can't get emancipated. They already hate each other. So he's stuck. It's fucked up, but Daniel likes it. He likes being handcuffed, and knowing that even if they decide not to speak to each other, even if Armand runs off, they're still tethered.
Safe from everything but each other.
Show off, he thinks, about the door. But it's fond, and it might not be showing off. Armand is so many miles away from human, why should he pretend otherwise?
"My wardrobe?" Oh, brother. "No, I just brought a few changes of clothes. I'm not even really unpacked."
He's shrugging off his jacket, meanwhile, and the alluded-to suitcase is there on the luggage stand, containing another pair of jeans, some slacks, pajamas, and a small variety of shirts. Another band tee, but a button-up, too. Socks. Underwear. A sweatshirt. It's not very exciting.
Time to make an immediate b-line to that suitcase, tossing it on the bed to begin rifling through it shamelessly. To his credit he doesn't actually turn his nose up at any of it, no matter how worn the shirt or jeans, looking over each with the critical eye of an appraiser brought delicate family treasures to prove their worth.
Then again each time he's finishes he just tosses the offending article of clothing to the side in a big pile that seems a little too much like a 'toss' pile in organizing. The band tshirts do get more attention, apparently charmed by the history of them and how they proudly display Daniel's taste in that way Daniel's era seems to adore. Armand found the business rather tacky at first, wearing billboards across their chests, but it's grown on him in the way tacky things tend to.
Like his fledging, as it turns out. He makes a mental note to call Daniel tacky sometime in the future just to see his reaction, before he drops the shirt and sits on the bed, phone back at the ready. He picks up a pair of socks with similar fascination before they get tossed aside too.
"You really should have formal wear prepared in case of unexpected business on trips such as this, Daniel," Armand tuts. "That is fine, I know your measurements. Have you ever owned a tuxedo? I admit I find them quite charming, are they outdated yet?"
Faintly exasperated, watching as Armand dissects his clothes. Of course he wants into every little nook and cranny of Daniel's life, as though he isn't already sliding around inside his veins. Daniel wonders just how much intimacy they're going to end up entwining around each other— they haven't revisited sex since he'd hit the brakes that one night in his apartment, and maybe they won't ever. Not really companions, not lovers, just some other, weird thing that maybe only exists for vampires.
He still believes that, eventually, Armand will find someone more suited to him. Someone who looks beautiful, who wasn't made in a panic attack. But until then, this is nice, even if it means his things get rifled through.
"I'm on a book tour, there's nothing unexpected," he says. "I've rented a tuxedo a few times. I look like a Batman villain in them."
He gestures, arms curved around him. Evocative of waddling.
"The Penguin. It looks stupid. And, look, I know I'm pushing the 'looks stupid' thing with band shirts and leather," heaven forbid anyone think Daniel Molloy is not self aware, "but I like those. And I only get one spiral into a hedonistic burnout 'death' of my mortal life."
"Of course it looks foolish, you rented. It was not tailored to your figure, which does not look like- are you referring to the Adam West series or the 1992 film?" Armand looks Daniel over for a moment before shaking his head. "Regardless, a ridiculous comparison."
He lifts himself from the bed, moving over to smooth his hands over Daniel's shoulders. A subtly possessive gesture in how it lingers, and his eyes fall on Daniel's lips one time too many before he sniffs and catches his eye.
"So what does not 'look stupid?' Will you wear cardigans and slacks for the rest of eternity?" he asks with an arched brow. "It hardly matters in this moment. You owe me, and I will not be denied what is owed."
Teasing. He sees those looks. Wonders about them, about how much Armand liked being kissed in public in a shitty corner store, how happy he was at buying tacky little sunglasses. It feels good, to be wanted. Something Daniel could get used to— knows he shouldn't, knows it's a bad idea, that Armand will get sick of him, like everyone gets sick of him, and leave permanently, not just to have space or play tag like they've been doing.
There will always be this tether, though. This bond. Armand says Daniel will resent him eventually, but what about the other way around? What happens when Armand regrets making some mean old man his first fledgling, and there's Daniel at the other side of the link, spitefully happy?
"I'm not protesting," he says, and pats Armand's side as he rests hands on his hips. "I'm just letting you know. You can dress me up in any penguin suit you want, if that's the reward you're deciding on."
"Peckish," Armand answers, lashes lowering in a way that could be flirtatious and maybe comes off a little as genuinely assessing Daniel's skin for where to take a bite out of. Not all that strange in the greater world of vampires, though in the greater world of Armand he is usually the one offering up his wrist and neck and blood rather than the other way around.
He considers the wisdom of procrastination in the form of seduction and maybe seeing if he could get Daniel's marvelous new fangs into his neck within the next few minutes, but Daniel says 'penguin suit' and he can't help but find that charming. Maybe more so how Daniel isn't fighting him about this, even playful back and forth. Just going with it, perhaps an offshoot of the man's burning curiosity. What happens next is easier to find out if it isn't impeded and allowed to unfurl.
Strange boy, though curiosity made for a dangerous vampire. A buffer against eternity.
"I'm going to get you a tuxedo," he says, eyes bright with delight as he cups Daniel's jaw. A sweet gesture, until he moves his head around like he's examining a prized dog at all angles. "Hm, and a few other pieces. Those you can do with as you will, but you will keep the tuxedo."
Hungry for blood, hungry for..? Daniel sways, just slightly, knowing that Armand is a creature capable of noticing even the smallest movements and understanding that they're deliberate, whereas a human might miss it. Tiniest degrees of overt interest. Wondering still.
Daniel wants to kiss him. Doesn't, yet.
"Alright. I'll try to restrain myself from a Burgess Meredith impression." To answer which Penguin, a question he skipped earlier, more interested in other things. "I never met him, just, like, the evil florist gangster. What's his name. Berle, I think. Because I did this chronicle project with Yyvone Craig. Motorcycles and Elvis and activism, you know?"
Nobody knows about any of that, Daniel. She's just Batgirl.
"Where the fuck am I going to wear a tuxedo, though?"
That tiny bit of interest Armand devours greedily, hungry for it in a way that surprises him. Being desired in such a way is hardly novel, but being desired by a man who dissected his ugliness and weakness brutally yet still asked him to come back here for a puzzle of all things, who kissed him in a dirty little bodega- well, that's a different beast.
The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit in mirth to hear the answer to his earlier question, charmed again that Daniel found his way back around to it. "I was more a fan of the Green Hornet that era I admit. If you are looking for impressions to dredge up."
He pats Daniel's cheek before pulling away, sitting elegantly on the bed and patting beside him in forceful invitation as he starts tapping away at his phone again. "Award shows, galas, fundraisers, gallery openings, opera, high society events, certain upscale restaurants- admittedly far less reason to go to the latter now, but the idea remains. Weddings, I suppose." He crinkles his nose as if that's the distasteful gathering of all of those.
But he makes a mental note about it. Bruce Lee movies? ... Green hats? Or maybe Armand will like wuxia films, with their magical realism. More weird than not. He gets a kick out of trying to find things that fixate Armand's attention. He wants to dig into him and find the artist, because he's sure there is one, even if he's buried it.
"I hate weddings." Daniel sits beside him, and leans back on his hands with a lilt over towards his maker, so he can spy on his phone screen. Does he think someone's going to show up with a tuxedo overnight and fit him? ... He might. That might be a thing ultra-wealthy people with spooky vampire connections can make happen. "I've got a suit jacket somewhere. No, two. I've got a brown one and a navy one. I don't think I've worn either in like twenty years."
Armand makes himself comfortable, not quite the intimacy of lounging against Daniel but shifts himself so they share the space seamlessly. Happy to show his phone screen, which is on some sleek website that screams overpriced rich people nonsense based purely on the somehow gaudy minimalism. "I would be curious to hear what impressions you are permitted by law and good taste to attempt- perhaps a dark navy would work well."
He considers Daniel for a few moments before tapping something on screen- oh there's a price tag for whatever's happening and it is indeed eye searingly high. More expensive than Daniel's first and potentially second car high. Not billionaires though, just multi million.
"You chafe against such uniforms, I take it. Daniel Molloy is not one for button ups and ties," Armand drawls, somewhere between biting mockery and maybe a hint of fondness. "I have never been to a wedding as an invited guest. We drained several wedding parties in Paris over the years, it was good practice for the coven."
"By law I can do whatever I want, and I tend to, but racial caricatures are considered in poor taste by people who aren't real dickheads, these days. Once upon a time I did this Chris Rock interview, and I asked him about his habit of constantly using the word [the n word, daniel would probably say this but i don't want it in my internet footprint LMAO] in this real mean way, like he was taking something personal and self-hating out on people and getting away with it. But it got buried because I'm not supposed to say that, even though Rock had never heard the word Armenia before."
He can talk f o r e v e r.
"But I'm bad at impressions, you heard my Mexican one already. And I dunno, I grew up poor. I feel fake, all dressed up. Money's a pain in the ass."
Ugh, look at those prices. Don't people have anything more interesting to spend money on? Like drugs.
"Did you have a favorite one? Wedding, that you crashed. Kinda romantic, doing one at night."
Chatty. It's enjoyable in a way, though Armand will never in his undead life admit it's a step up from the silent stillness of the penthouse on any given day. He taps away at his phone, taking only a moment to try and remember if he saw that interview. Not that he will ever admit to following Daniel's career unless it's in a sinister, pragmatic way.
He doesn't remember it. Shame, he would have been interested in that interview, if only because of the era he was quite taken with Dogma. And Osmosis Jones.
"What year was that?" he does ask, a few more taps before he pulls the phone to his ear and starts speaking to someone on the other line in smooth french. The conversation is short, the phone dropped to the side when he's done as though now they simply waited.
"You and Louis are similar in your incessant need to make your wealth bracket a singular part of your personality," he muses. Probably not a compliment. The question has him glancing over, more curious that Daniel would find anything 'kinda romantic.' The admittance makes him want to indulge so he does, taking a few moments to unearth those hunts from his memory and make a decision.
Largely that time period was dissociative for him, dull and exhausting, but just like in the catacombs the hunts were a singular pleasure to break through the muck. "Hm, there was one shortly before the Great War, on one of the bridges of the Seine. Rich enough they paid to have the water cleaned somewhat, and the dim light casting the waters black hid the sins of the city's filth. Candles floating on the water, deeply indulgent. They looked like stars dotting the stream. Celeste nearly fell in gazing upon them- she was still a fledgling at the time, easily taken with sensation.
"We stole the bride for our next show," he sounds almost nostalgic about it.
"Ninety-three, I think. It might have been published later than that, though. Like an early '94, it got bounced around. First out in a Chicago magazine that went belly up before the millennium."
Half spoken over Armand's conversation, but he hasn't shushed Daniel, and didn't give him warning. Whatever. He's quiet after, though, listening despite its shortness. His French is bad, he can ask where the bathrooms are and how to order drinks, say a bunch of swear words. Better at swearing in Quebecois French, though. Tabernak hits a lot harder, more fun.
"Are we?"
Daniel doesn't actually love that. He's a little weirded out by Louis' distance from the help, on most days. He just, personally, thinks wealth hoarding is a low-grade mental illness. And he thinks Armand agrees, even if he doesn't realize it. Daniel lurking with his ice pick ready to go hunting in frozen fossil records. Mansions and rich people weddings and crypto bros. Got your number, you weirdo. Maybe he'll ramble about this to Armand if they talk more about it, but for now, he's distracted by listening to a slightly horrifying, but aesthetically pleasing, story of murder and abduction.
"At least they had a nice party before she became a human sacrifice." A beat. "Do you miss that kind of thing? In general, I don't need us to go stomping around in a minefield. But you had a real creative outlet, with all that."
The nineties, Armand did spend a lot of that decade learning technology and hiding said obsession from Louis lest it be agitating rather than endearing. That's probably why he missed it, and he makes a mental note to scour the wasteland of the internet.
He preferred the internet in the nineties. Slower paced in all things and wild, bramble growth.
"You are like Louis in many ways besides. Your complicated relationship with sexuality, for example," Armand offers, a glance over with an innocent enough look that says yeah, this is basically meant to get under Daniel's skin. Or perhaps he just enjoys that it does, wants to dissect Daniel and see what part of it makes him squirm.
Maybe literally, Daniel is much more durable now. He wonders if vivisection is counter culture enough for Daniel's taste or one of those things that would tip his fledgling into needless histrionics over his own well-being. Poor Daniel, tortured in a decidedly mild manner for a few measly days when he spent several decades putting his own brain in a blender for a string of momentary highs.
"She spent most of the party mulling in increasing dismay over 'to death do us part' and the seeming eternity of it. I found that a poetic touch," Armand answers, then tilts his head at the question. "I do not miss that time period, no. I did not lie when I told Louis it was a job I never desired and was trapped in."
A beat. Tentatively, as if half expecting Daniel to use any sliver of truth against him, he offers, "I suppose if there was anything worth missing it was the plays themselves, more so when we began working with the projectors. I've always found mixed media compelling."
"Hey." Daniel pokes him. "Louis' relationship with sex is complicated because it also involves Jesus, or his mom, or whatever. My relationship with sex is much easier, just dumber."
Louis knows he's gay, but feels bad about it. Daniel knows he's not, and feels fine about it most days, except when he thinks too hard about it, and feels like he should have died in the AIDS crisis. He also knows he sort of is, but he isn't compelled by the lifestyle (and there's something to be said for the fact that he considers it a lifestyle, Boomer Uses Slurs and Thinks Gays Are Weird, news at 10), and he's never been a legitimate or honest member of a community. He's probably a traitor, actually. So what business does he have claiming any of it?
Dumber, like he said. He knows, but he doesn't.
Meanwhile. He considers Armand, and his cartoons.
"Shadow plays, Magic Lanterns, Rauschenberg... Who Framed Roger Rabbit."
"Of course Daniel, your own relationship with sex has nothing to do with family or your environment, I am sure. Only pointless, fickle, dumb matters. Inconsequential."
There's the doe eyes again, pure, weaponized Rashid purely to be mean for no real reason than he likes it. He will not, can not allow himself to register the enormity of what it means that Daniel Molloy is the first and only person he's ever been ugly with in a way that felt freeing.
Given the ugliness it's probably a bit jarring when Armand goes bright suddenly, an honest to god grin. "A delightful piece, was it not?"
Oh there they are, the big innocent eyes— an attempt at them, anyway, the effect is somewhat different without the contacts. Daniel, foolishly, had assumed that occasional glint was from corrective lenses. Who wears colored brown contacts? Well, somebody whose eyes are fucking orange, it turns out.
Weird, maybe. Daniel likes this better. The innocence is surreal now, having an animal quality, as though Armand really has no idea why he should bother pretending to be human at all, and this expression signifies something unrelated to Fake Rashid's accidental Bambi eyes.
Ppfft. Toothy smile, over cartoons.
"You're such a dork," he says, as if that's a perfectly normal thing to call a five hundred year old monster. He reaches up, touches his maker's chin, tilts his head down a little to look at him. A heartbeat later and he's moving away to grab his laptop.
"C'mere I'm gonna show you something." C'mere, they're already sitting in bed together. Look. Okay. He's pulling something up on YouTube, of all things, and he hits play and sets the laptop on the nightstand. 1893's Rock & Rule. It's beautiful, it's horrible. "So do you actually want to do the puzzle, or did you summon somebody to come in here and measure my ankles?"
There are times Armand regrets the loss of Daniel's thoughts. Well, okay he regrets it often when they interact, even when he refrained from indulging the option was always there, waiting. A failsafe, so much easier than word and gesture and expression, all matter that had a thousand different meanings. He can never edit Daniel's mind again, he cannot reach in to pluck understanding, he cannot know anything Daniel says for certain.
At times it is difficult not to flee on that knowledge alone, and yet here they are. Daniel always pondering away, sharp observations Armand must now wait for Daniel to divulge should he wish to. He must accept any seeds planted are ones he will not see until they bloom.
He blinks once at being called a dork, as though this is a novel experience to consider- because it is, given most vampires are flowery dramatic shitheads who wouldn't be caught dead using the word 'dork' and they're ninety percent of his social life. The look grows sharper when Daniel touches his chin, as though waiting for a kiss he may or may not return sweetly or with a bite-
No, he's being shown a video. Armand considers being disappointed by that for all of a moment before ah! Well, the bizarre style immediately grabs him, and it's a real shame he was busy playing mutual toxic fucked up Stepford wife bullshit with Louis in the eighties because he'd love the theatrical, puffed up weirdness of it all. "Why do the creatures look like that?" he asks, clearly charmed by it.
Enough he ignores Daniel for a few moments, shifting only to lean against him somewhere between sweetly and seeming very much like he's using Daniel as convenient, comfortable furniture. "Hm? We can do both." So yes, summoned for ankle measuring. "If you're good and do not squirm it will be over before you know it."
He wonders how much of himself Armand ever showed Louis. If he sat around peeling Rubik's cubes and bird wings apart while watching Pre-Codes cartoons while Louis looked up auction houses, or if Armand was all housewife, all the time. He wonders how much of himself Armand is willing to prune away, like some horrible self-mutilating gardener, growing wilder and wilder in the confines of his own, overpowered mind in total isolation.
Couldn't have been much, right? Louis acted like Armand was so normal. Just a person who, on good days, he was sick of. He didn't act like he was trapped with a psychopath megalodon.
Daniel lets Armand lean on him, and even slings an arm around his middle so that he doesn't slide away while he leans to fish the puzzle out of wherever he's got it stowed. Bag, maybe. Mysterious of the narrative. If they actually want to do it, they'll have to move to a table (or pull a door off of the hutch, whatever), but they can sort the pieces by color in the box.
"I've never been good once in my entire fucking life." He flops the box down. Behold. Fish. "Do you sound like a slightly creepy, slightly horny mad scientist on purpose?"
The power of vampirism is Armand can simply bring the table to them, though he does not do that. His eyes are set unblinking in the screen, only glancing away to the box when presented. In some ways it feels like a trap, though he isn't entirely certain what end of it is the snare. Daniel presenting a hobby and expecting engagement mirroring his own enthusiasm without tipping the scale to insulting apathy or unpleasant fervor? Perhaps the opposite, a pastime sometimes considered childish or dull, where sincere interest would be boring.
The truth is a guy who genuinely enjoys picking lint off the sofa and keeping everything in their neat little boxes with a side passion in dissection is one who feels a very genuine flare of interest on the matter. Even as he settles for mirroring Daniel's enthusiasm as a safety precaution, at least until he gets a better understanding of why it is Daniel brought this before him.
He tries not to get attached to the idea that each of these little offerings, puzzles and delightful animations, are offerings from Daniel's own interest with sincere intent. Given both their track records there's a good chance that would end in fire and brimstone one way or another. At least the heat is comfortable, as is Daniel's well known personal failings with interpersonal relationships. Some might call that common ground and not tactical advantage.
Anyway Armand considers saying Daniel was very good in San Francisco when Armand made him be, but he has the foresight to register he may be denied puzzles if he casually brings up Daniel's torture and all the histrionics his fledgling fell into about it. Worse, he might move away and Armand is quite cozy where he is, reaching to pluck up a puzzle piece and examine it.
"Then squirm and prolong the process, I will enjoy myself either way." Daniel's discomfort was and is cute, like abandoned animals in cardboard boxes probably. He smothers his own amusement when Daniel calls him a mad scientist. Unfortunate the bond likely gives away he enjoys the comparison more than when people call him otherworldly in his beauty or something similar.
"Do you enjoy it? For how often you pin your subjects to squirm under your relentless gaze perhaps you would enjoy being examined until you have nothing left to give."
The embarrassing truth is that Daniel doesn't want Armand to get bored. A frightful return of The B Word. Daniel is the one who has nothing in him but that black hole, who can offer nothing of himself (because there's nothing to offer) besides questions, poking, prodding. If he investigates and digs into Armand to find all the things he likes, all the niche interests and hobbies, preexisting and potential, then he can better trap his maker here for further observation and interaction. He can learn more, learn the most, before Armand gets tired of him.
Everyone does. Armand is going to. It'll look different, because Armand is who (and what) he is. Might take longer, too, with the way time doesn't hit the same for vampires, particularly not ancient ones whose fucked up makers lived at the same time as Actual Jesus Christ.
But it'll happen. So here are some cartoons, and here is a puzzle, and maybe Armand will stay past measuring him for a suit he'll never wear. Daniel isn't Louis, he isn't Lestat, he isn't beautiful or compelling, he isn't charming, he isn't actually very nice. There's no reason for Armand to stick around. Daniel has to figure something out.
A small chuckle. Mad scientist does suit him. What a freak.
"I did write a memoir," he points out. "Putting myself through the thing I put other people through, more or less."
Joke's on Armand. There's nothing to give to begin with. It's all there in the book, the one without mention of Louis or Armand in San Fransisco. Just stories, things that have happened to him, things he thinks about, false depth. But he's a good writer. It looks endless.
"You did no such thing. What you did is closer to offering up your weaknesses on your own terms, and made them into an armor. Look at the ugly truths of my life, you say, in your own words with only an editor to keep you honest.
"You would find the experience far different, having an antagonistic creature dissect every word to find the rot underneath the gilding," Armand answers, though rather than accusation he almost sounds approving, in his own way. A clever way of keeping control of the narrative, to protect himself, Daniel might be a survivor after all.
He begins sorting the pieces as he speaks, some system that seems based on shape and color.
Just a touch wry, shoulder to shoulder with the creature that tortured him for a week. A shard of ice, and all that. A mystery, still, why Armand didn't just get rid of him in the ensuing fifty years, why he's content with having given an eager black hole this unlife, these powers, such healing and stability.
Daniel keeps one arm around Armand, low on his hips, and he thinks of holding Alice this way; comfortable, casual, rarely the arm over her shoulders. Was it more like a hug, or more like people were less likely to notice? Insert slur here hooker Daniel Molloy, making it with a woman out of his league.
Well, anyway.
"I've never been creative. Not real creativity, like you with your animations." (Louis with photography, Lestat with music, Marius with painting...) "All I've got is poking around at other people."
Well, Daniel got him there. Armand considers that for a few fleeting moments, those spiraling days as an interview of a different kind. An unsatisfying one, he never really did get the answers he was seeking. All that came of the mess was a broken companionship and doing puzzles with the man who spearheaded its destruction.
Cuddled up, even, to the man who heralded his divorce. Slotted into his side and enjoying it more than he wishes he realized.
"I directed, I did not create," he answers after a beat, hands moving a little faster with the satisfying work of organizing and sorting. Despite the deflection he cannot help a sliver of surprised pride at the animations being considered at all. "Self effacement- you do not consider writing creation? Your damnable book and all it's kohl caked admirers with chipped black nail polish and mournful sighs are not proof?
"What do you consider yourself then, a taxidermist? A curator? A nosy neighbor peeking through the windows, jotting notes?"
Maybe Daniel had wanted to be creative. Maybe it's part of why Louis took a particular shine to him, a kid who so dearly wanted to have that spark, the fount of it pouring out of him— but it wasn't creation, it was hunger. Still is.
He watches Armand sort, not yet compelled to help out. It's more satisfying to observe him, and shift just a little bit to get more comfortable. Practically cuddled up, indeed. He wonders if the ancient vampire would mind if he leaned in enough to nose through his silky hair, enjoy the dense texture of midnight strands. But he's not sure where they land on idle affections. They did what they did, but they didn't go further, and that line drawn is still there, for Daniel.
Does Armand actually want him? ... Does it matter? Is Daniel's craterd self-esteem too good for experimentation?
"I like the truth of things, I guess. Even when it's horrible. Especially when, if my work suggests anything. And the truth of myself is pretty fucking horrible, when you get right down to it. Maybe I've got great self-worth after all."
"Curious, yes. Loudmouth, very much so. Unfortunately for the rest of us you contain multitudes," Armand answers with an airy wave of the hand, moving the edge pieces of the puzzle into a little pile. "If you did not you would be dead."
Now he seems curious about making piles of the pieces in similar shapes, for whatever reason. Not helpful but at this point he seems to be going about the puzzle not unlike a kid just making a mess or making piles of his toys instead. Focused on it as he leans against Daniel, though his attention couldn't be more obviously on Daniel himself.
Enough that he even breaks his nonchalance to look to Daniel, assessing as he asks, "What is the truth of Daniel Molloy 'when you get right down to it,' then?"
"Trying to get me to explain my psychological weaknesses because you can't pull them out of my head for free anymore?"
Naughty ancient mad scientist. Though Daniel thinks that some of this might be actual, genuine curiosity on Armand's part. Neither of them have any experience with being what they are to each other. Pretty nuts. His tone is teasing, anyway. Whether or not it's intentional, it's kinda funny that he's doing it.
"I'm just some asshole with no friends and a completely estranged family."
Horrible, as noted. But some horrible things are ordinary, and isn't that worse? There's more he could say, now. He could talk about how sometimes, he thinks Louis would be disappointed in him, and it's an unpleasant thought. But not as unpleasant as the idea of eating rats and barricading himself away from the world except to get in fights. He knows he should feel bad about murdering people, and he feels a little bad over not feeling at all bad. But still not as bad as he should.
![[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.
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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?"
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"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.
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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?"
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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."
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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."
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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.
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"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)
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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.
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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."
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"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.
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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.
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"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.
no subject
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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He eyes Daniel's smile, the answer to Armand's agreement, then the way Daniel almost seems to lean in. His hand on Armand's knee, the quiet intimacy of this little moment. He's enough in the moment itself he doesn't think of turning around the mortals walking by, including the bookshop worker who stops nearby to stand in awkward silence, unsure of interrupting and why the author is so cozy with a random young man.
Armand's fingers brush up Daniel's knuckles to his wrist. "Quite," he answers, before finally turning his attention to woman. She clears her throat awkwardly before introducing herself, stuttering through the schedule, before finally glancing to Armand and asking who he is as politely as she could manage.
Armand turns his gaze to Daniel again, a faint quirk to his lips as he tilts his head, waiting for Daniel to answer that for him. A little joke, how many times Daniel has asked for his name for these signings, curious to see what he decides to answer. Rashid, the assistant. Perhaps a question dismissed entirely.
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(He'll always go back to the apartment with the potential serial killer offering him drugs.)
Armand touches his wrist. He thinks of his maker's fans there. It makes his pulse tick up, but it's gentle, happy. Pleased in a surprisingly innocent way to have him here, even while he's perfectly aware that he's volunteered himself to end up in a fucking iron maiden or whatever later. He smiles at him, and then has to turn his attention to the assistant manager who's just trying to do her job. A predicament Daniel sympathizes with, but not enough to shuffle this encounter away into nothingness.
"This is Armand," he says, "my assistant for the day."
And that's that. She does not immediately think It's some guy cosplaying as a book character, because Armand is a real name. ('Lestat' would have been a red flag.) Not yet, anyway. Those coming to get their books signed might start to notice, particularly if they do anything besides sit stoically beside each other.
Not much of a chat, today, it's not that kind of event, though he may entertain some questions from individual signature-seekers, some of which are beginning to mill around now that they aren't being psychically herded elsewhere.
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Well, Daniel is choosing Armand to be at his side rather than Rashid or some other, easier name. His fingers stroke over Daniel's wrist one last time before offering the woman a charming smile.
He stays where he is as the first people come up, leaning back to eye those who show up and scan their thoughts vigilantly. There's a vampire far down the line interestingly enough, though when Armand dips into her thoughts she seems genuinely here for the signing and debating if she should flee as she senses Armand close. It would be easier if he could speak to Daniel in his mind but there is something to how he has to lean over and murmur close to his ear instead.
"You've made fans of our kind," he offers, both agitated and amused by this idea. Getting so close to Daniel sets off the thoughts of several people in line, all gossip and curiosity that Armand seems to enjoy in his own way, given he rests an arm around Daniel's chair so he can keep their conspiratorial proximity a little longer.
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And tonight, there's an element of having Armand here, sitting so close to him.
"Oh yeah?" turns to converse privately, the next patron standing with their book in hand, waiting to address him. "You know they'll notice. That okay?"
He tips his head down enough to look at Armand over the top edge of his glasses, eyes as amber-orange as his maker's. Maybe it's not that easy, maybe no one will see them together and go Oh, Molloy's definitely a vampire, oh, wow, Molloy's definitely a vampire and his maker is Armand.
But.
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"Notice what you are? Notice we are together or that you are mine?" Armand almost looks delighted by this question, as if it were a deeply amusing thing Daniel has asked him. Largely because yes, they no doubt already know given Armand's made it very clear in several cities with any brewing tension that the fledgling Daniel Molloy was not be harmed. On occasion that took very graphic examples being made. Some people pick up new hobbies when they get divorced, which is surely just what this is, probably.
"They already know it, if they have any sense. As they do not appear to be here to cause you harm I assume they have as much sense as any fan of yours does."
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Him? Some fucking old guy? He's not thinking about the further destruction of his own mortal reputation, fooling about with a man who looks so much younger. He's thinking about Armand broadcasting to the undead world that he transformed an annoying old journalist who then went on to expose them. But Armand is cool with it. With him. With people knowing, alive people and dead people.
His expression is painfully young. Happy but a little embarrassed for being that happy. Almost shy. Really?
"Alright."
Next patron. Daniel smiles up at them, and signs for the name given, chats a bit about the proposed translation into Afrikaans.
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No, there's just Armand watching Daniel a moment longer. He expected rolled eyes or reminders Armand did not own him. Another little debate on old vampiric terminology, snide remarks that Armand didn't make him beyond a fucked up blood transfusion. Perhaps regret at the end, bitterness, his reputation being dragged through the dirt of assumption. Always something, he's found, that makes Armand unideal to claim publicly. His waning power as maitre, old laws, the color of his skin in Venice.
Daniel's face looked more at ease than Armand can remember seeing it, if only for a brief moment. It's pretty in a new facet of Daniel, the appeal of hard, sharp edges finally softening in stellar contrast. When Armand finally pulls his eyes away he realizes with twitch of his fingers his heart is threatening to pick up. How easy it is to fall in love with Daniel, a matter nipping at his ankles for some time, even if he's done a resoundingly good job in avoiding it. The first time in perhaps his entire existence he claimed someone and they looked upon him like that was a wondrous thing.
The vampire gets closer- older than Daniel but young, and Armand fixes his gaze upon her in unblinking severity. One hand stays behind Daniel's chair, nails at the back of his neck. A woman nearby wonders how much Daniel pays this kid, another wonders if bestsellers really give a guy that much game. The vampire bows her head in nervous respect to Armand before trying to avoid looking at him entirely. Thanks Daniel for the book in a way that sounds quite genuine. Says it was very informative and helpful. That he's brave to write it.
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Right now, he feels like Armand's happy that he's his fledgling. Not for any fucked up kink reason, or because he wants to make Louis angry, or because he lost it when Daniel pulled the rug out from under the feet of his life in Dubai. Just because he thought Daniel was worth keeping around.
He knows it's a fantasy. Nobody feels that way about him, and that's fine, Daniel wouldn't keep himself around either. But it's nice, and it's especially nice right here, doing this thing, a part of his career, and even though it's a goofy part, Daniel's career means a lot to him. And Armand is sharing a piece of it with him.
Daniel smiles widely at the vampire who shows up, and is excited to talk to her, his appreciation genuine. He's met so few others, just listens in at night. He even forges to feel self-conscious about his appearance, made content through Armand's presence. Good enough for his maker, good enough for everyone else, too. Telepathically, he and the woman vampire agree to stay in touch, and wish each other well as she takes her leave.
Surely it's tangible in the bond: he's happy, he's appreciative, he's content. His presence curls up against Armand's, tangled in that silver thread, holding him close even as he laughs with a fan about her t-shirt about fangbangs and signs her book.
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Luckily for the well meaning fledgling she gets the time to chat and make this connection while Armand basks in Daniel's contentment. Maybe it's primal instinct, the sheer satisfaction he feels at his fledgling happy and safe. Maybe it's refreshing after decades of Louis' consistent melancholy, bright moments always slow and pierced with a dark undercurrent. Not Daniel, whose joy is as addictive as his regard. As addictive as his anger, is self righteous fury, the sparring across long tables with an insignificant little mortal who still kept up better than any vampire ever did.
If he's honest the process of all this intrigues him too, the book signing. For all his tall talk of mortals and separation Armand's curiosity with the world has never fully wavered, the mechanics of publishing and promoting almost quaint compared to the ruthless art markets Louis pulled them through. Armand's side of the bond when examined is typically guarded, and if not that then a low thrumming tension careful vigilance. Yet in the sphere of Daniel's contented presence he thaws a little, curiosity blooming like weeds. Not calm, not safe but closer to both than he's managed in some time.
One bold young man asks who he is, and when Armand answers as Daniel did the boy laughs. "Wow, you do look like how I imagined him. Love the contacts, by the way."
Armand watches the boy go, resisting the impish urge to bear his fangs and see how far mortal denial takes them. There aren't many left in the line regardless, and he has a prize to cash in. "Your descriptions did me justice, or so it seems." He says as if he didn't read every single scrap Daniel wrote about him obsessively while also making notes in the margins.
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But they aren't there yet. He won't be like Armand, rushing to the resentment. He'll enjoy it for now, while he still has it, still circling in his bloodstream, his brain chemistry; for now, while he can reflect it back at Armand. He knows it'll hurt in the morning, but he knew quaaludes and coke would hurt in the morning, too.
"I'm a professional, you know. I've won awards and stuff."
And maybe Armand is compelling to write about. A secret villain, lurking behind the bombastic one being painted in the forefront. It's a good role. A shitty interview, all of Daniel's observations that cut to the truth of him having to be accessed sideways, but the weight of Louis' made up for it. Mostly. Daniel still laments all the edits forced on him by the librarian spies.
Not many left. A man younger than Daniel, but close enough to be a contemporary, is next; between a sharp memory and glancing at his surface thoughts, Daniel realizes they've bumped into each other before. It's not the first book he's signed for the guy. And when he offers a slightly self-conscious smile while handing over the new one, Daniel nearly stumbles over saying hello.
The man is thinking that he doesn't want to make assumptions about Molloy and the young man he's sitting with, but that it reminds him of the relationship that defined him. He was Armand's apparent age, once, and the love of his life looked more like Daniel (looked more like the man does now), and it's making him feel bittersweet, and nostalgic. Maybe, this man is thinking, Molloy is working through something; the same something that he's been working through since the first book of is that he read.
Daniel signs his book. Says hello, asks if they've met before. It is nice, and it is surreal; he finds himself appreciating this moment more because he can violate this man's privacy and read his mind. He finds himself hoping Armand has done the same. Sweet outlined with just a thread of horror. Salt on caramel. Better for it.
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He thinks idly of it, only pulled from his musings when Daniel reacts in a different way to the man now approaching. The near stumble, enough Armand's eyes land on the man and his book with the assessment of threat only to find a mundane human man watching them with flavor of thoughts somewhat unique.
It's not as though all of the thoughts around have been scandal and self righteousness- plenty have been amused, congratulatory, or attracted one way or another. Spectacle, the pair of them huddled too close to be strictly platonic by many standards, and here is a personal flare instead. A man who sees reflection, old ghosts and older 'what-ifs,' bodies in unmarked graves. His nails scrape harmlessly down the back of Daniel's neck, fingertips lingering. Possessive but an odd moment of reflection too.
"Your time will soon belong to me," Armand says, watching this man and his bittersweet memories move away. "As we agreed."
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He is joking, he is making a joke, saying this very nerdy thing will calling Armand a joke. But he has won an awful lot of awards— the Pulitzers are just the best ones to brag about, especially these days when every dickhead with a Twitter account can declare themself a journalist.
But anyway.
They're about done, here, just a few more lingering, curious parties, who are wondering if they can get a cup signed or something else, interested in the oddity of Vampire Book Nutjob, but not willing to buy a book. Any other night, Daniel may have playfully instigated something. Tonight, he doesn't even consider it. He leans an elbow on the table, looks at Armand, lens-covered eyes flicking over him. Pleased that his maker is still here. It verges on smugness, in fact.
"Impatient?"
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His mood is eased enough he lets it pass- here is Daniel, coaxing him to stay. Smug he did. Addictive, being wanted or at least the heady illusion of it.
"Do you need to feed before my plans for you?" Speaking of maker instinct: the urge to coax the most rancid of those lingering around the store, like that robust man with his slow, predator heart and an ache in his knuckles from hurting something much weaker than he. Or maybe just the annoying shrill creature nearby who rolls her eyes overhearing that and thinks Daniel is too embarrassingly old for the larping, vampire schtick.
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"Don't worry, I'm not trying to weasel out of anything. My idea, remember?"
He dares to put his hand on Armand's knee again, and he appreciates both the potential for some observing party to find it grotesque, and the potential for Armand to cut his fingers off. It's like cuddling with an extremely beautiful inland taipan snake.
"Mm." Considers this, because it might very well depend on what those plans are (is he alarmed that Armand already has plans? is he excited?). Daniel is more or less always hungry, something he's been assured is just a side-effect of newness to this unlife, but he can ignore the constant internal nagging. Addict superpowers.
"Might as well."
Ultimately, he says yes mostly because he thinks it'll please Armand.
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Novel. He cared for many as coven master but the pull was a dense, drowning obligation like a shackle more times than it was not. This feeling with Daniel is oddly buoyant, and far more terrifying aside. "Fledgling appetite," Armand says with a hint of approval. "Come with me, then."
The store is winding down, the book signing already far later than it would typically allow for. Disgruntled workers eying customers clearly intent on lounging around as long as they can, said customers milling around shelves. Some fans of Daniel's lingering, though they seem intent on looking away with blank looks when Armand's eyes skim over the crowd.
He stands fluidly, hand to Daniel's shoulder as he scans the room and locks eyes on the robust man from before. "Him," he offers, eyes shifting to Daniel, waiting to see if he'll bite. Pun maybe intended.
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"Someone whose disappearance I'll be questioned about given this will be the last public place he was seen in?"
Kids these days. No sense of timing with murder. Do you know how many fucking murders Daniel has accidentally solved over the course of his career, while sorting through facts and running down leads on other stories? But—
"Sure, him."
Why the fuck not. He's got money now, he can get away with whatever. Daniel stands up and grabs his bag, slings it over his shoulder. Reaches out with his mind to get the measure of the man, and considers the least suspicious way to go about it.
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Rude. He follows though, fixated on Daniel far more than some middling mortal and those mulling about. Not that he'll make it particularly easy for Daniel, as tempted as he is to turn all eyes away from his fledgling and ensuring his safety with their kind and mortal authorities.
All matters Daniel must learn on his own, and even recognizing the danger faced here does bring Armand a sense of smug satisfaction.
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(Is he going to kiss him?)
"You like the book."
Lestat is the tragic villain, and Armand is the one without redemption, forever lurking in the shadows like a spider. The most frustrating role. The coolest, most fucked up role. In a book that exposes everything that Armand is supposed to hate about his existence. Louis changed his mind, didn't want it to go out; Lestat hates it. But Armand, Daniel thinks, likes the book.
He straightens back up. Time to go do a murder.
He says goodbye to the store manager, and leaves. The man is seemingly forgotten, left to mill around for minutes on his own before he exits. He turns down the street and away, going the opposite direction that Daniel went. Off to catch an Uber. He will, of course, be intercepted. And Daniel has gotten okay at detecting cameras through sound. He'll have gone to the corner store, which doesn't have great security camera coverage, and then in a few minutes, he'll be back in the corner store, having never left. This man will be in an alley, bloodless, having suffered a heart attack, or something like that. Who knows.
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Armand wants to be irritated and is as he watches Daniel move. Annoyed because the idea of liking the book isn't one he's given himself time to consider and it's true. That Daniel can see that sliver of contradiction in him is annoying. That this book is an ugly death wish beneath it's grandeur is annoying. That people on the street occasionally think his name with any number colorful and insipid opinions is annoying. That it is a testament to his continued weakness and mistake is annoying.
But of course Daniel is right, the stupid, overblown whole of it is something Armand likes. He's read it again and again in varying stages of wrath, humor or dissociation. He listens to it's broad, brash ripples in the vampire community. He follows his fledgling and tells himself he must because of the damn book and its damn dangers.
He likes the way Daniel writes, infuriatingly enough. Like he's leaning in to share a secret. He loves and hates this is the first portrait of himself, in ink rather than paint, by Daniel's damning hand. A murky and ugly picture, unlike any portrait done of him before. Terrifying, to be portrayed candidly, unflatteringly, and he likes it. He likes it too much.
Armand appears at Daniel's side in the corner store, hand to Daniel's arm as if to feel the warmth of the feeding. A presence the entire time, if the pleased curl of his lips is any indication.
"The New York coven loathes you," he says like this is an attractive quality Daniel possesses, pissing them off. He plucks a pair of gaudy, cheap sunglasses from a nearby rack and looks them over as if they weren't ugly lumps of plastic.
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But that's just a theory. a GaMe tHeOrY
If any of it's true, Daniel gets it. Sort of. Armand was born so long ago that today must seem like an alien planet. If Daniel lives for five hundred years, and they end up living in a nice place in a little space station by Lagrange Point 2, it'll probably still bear more resemblance to 2022 than 2022 does to 1500. Armand's brain is cooked. It's soup. Fucked up, cult soup.
One of many reasons Daniel should ditch him, instead of give him a brilliant smile that's a little too toothy. Blood-warm, pleased, not too impressed with his meal on a personal level, but happy to be fed regardless.
"Fuck 'em," he says magnanimously, and then he does what he didn't do back in the book store, and leans over and kisses Armand. Right here in the shitty corner store, over a pair of cheap sunglasses, in front of the clerk and god and everybody.
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Armand opens his mouth to spew the script, remind Daniel of countless dangers or whatever archaic, potentially bullshit vampire etiquette that Must Be Maintained, Daniel, when Daniel leans in instead. A kiss like the one he was mildly peeved about not being granted before, in front of the clerk who squints and thinks something disparaging about May-December romances. Armand could and in his own mind should bring up something disparaging about bartering with desire, but instead he foolishly leans into the kiss instead.
His lips quirk, smothering it but making no move to be the one to pull back first. Hungry, the mistake of showing affection he can sink his teeth into and not easily let go. Even when the clerk will undoubtedly clear his throat should Armand have his way and let the little intimacy linger.
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Now he can eat people.
Armand likes the book. Armand likes this, too, Daniel thinks. He doesn't push too far, doesn't turn sharing a sweet kiss in public into the tacky mistake of actually making out in public, just shares a quick little thing there at the end before he pulls away. Lets Armand taste the blood still lingering in his mouth. He knows Armand was watching, but still: here, look, I did it. For you.
"I kinda hope you say you want to kill everybody in here," he says quietly. Just enough for the two of them. "But it'd be a pain in the ass. Maybe I can lure you to my hotel room instead. I've got a 500 piece Paul Klee jigsaw puzzle."
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"As long as it is not a piece from his period in Tunis," Armand answers, running his hands over Daniel's shoulders in a way that seems both intimate and fussy, eyes just a touch brighter at how alluring he genuinely finds the idea of going to do a puzzle and nothing more. "You still owe me, but we could achieve my goals in your hotel room."
Looking at Daniel through his lashes at that, the faintest quirk to his lips.
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Armand's wanting is so twisted as to feel true sometimes, though.
"It's fish," he informs him, about which Klee painting has been immortalized in puzzle form. Daniel has no clue if it's from whatever 'his period in Tunis' means; his art knowledge is more than a layman's, but miles behind the likes of Armand and Louis. "I know, I know. It was my idea, I'm still on board. Do you want the shades?"
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He leads them out, seemingly content to stroll their way back unless Daniel points out other means of making it there much faster. He seems less than pleased at the attention Daniel occasionally draws, that double take look and thought of someone who recognizes his face from the about the author book blurb or television appearances.
Admittedly it is a novel experience to be this visible. In the theater sometimes, but his life with Louis was a far quieter thing, increasingly isolated for Louis' own good. He can already imagine Daniel's sneer if he said as much, or some quippy little comment, a matter that amuses him at the moment rather than annoy.
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And then what? Louis left him alone with Armand. Louis walked away, and Daniel ceased to exist behind him once the door to the penthouse was closed. Daniel loves Louis, but if he pitches a fit about Armand, Daniel's not sure what he'll say. How's Lestat?, probably, which isn't kind. But oh well. They like to argue, it'll be alright.
"I think they just get broken up and go back in the box," he says. "Some people frame the ones they really like, but that was always weird to me."
And he started with puzzles to work on his motor skills when the shakes started, not because he really likes puzzles. Turns out they're nice, though, and they're good for luring in deeply fucked up 500 year old freaks.
"Is walking back alright? I wouldn't want to suggest you get into a car that might blow up with us inside."
Daniel's funny.
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Daniel's a little funny. Armand refuses to roll his eyes but the spirit is there in his tone. "Walking is fine, to spare my fledgling the dangers of motor vehicles. What would this world do without Daniel Molloy to irritate tv personalities on streaming services only a handful of people own?"
Despite the the quip he seems rather pleased by the chance to walk, regarding the area with somewhat new eyes- a rarity that is delightful if not for the reason. Here is Daniel's era and world, that will one day crystalize in his mind in formative foundation, blessing and curse alike.
"Besides, it would not kill me," he sniffs. "What is an lackluster automobile to a five hundred year old vampire?"
He can try to do funny callbacks too, thanks.
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Just live, and like it. Or don't live, and take a nap for fifty years, and then have fun puzzles to do when you wake up. Daniel doesn't know if he'd ever be able to hibernate, but even the prospect of doing so is kind of interesting. Is it like coming out of a space ship onto a new planet after being in cryosleep, like some weird space movie? Is it like being lost in the dark? He wants to know. He wants to know everything.
Daniel pinches Armand's side for his bad joke, playful and tickling.
"Yeah, yeah, you're the coolest."
It'd be more mocking if he didn't mean it. Armand is the scariest thing in the world.
The hotel isn't too long of a walk away, but it is still a walk. But the night air is nice, and they get to be in public together, and Daniel gets to look relaxed and happy about it. The scariest thing in the world, and he's got his arm linked with Daniel's, deceptively beautiful, but horrible, a nightmare of a monster that's devoured thousands of lives. And he makes bad jokes.
Into the hotel, into the elevator, finger to button, and up.
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What's more is the fact he feels very little in the way of alarm at the revelation. This is his, every instinct tells him, for better or for worse. His fledgling, blood of his blood, uniquely capable of harming him but also a lone safe haven in the world.
No, perhaps not safe but still he has a place here, carved out in a form he does not yet recognize. To find the shape of it is a terrifying prospect as much as it is an alluring one, and he dwells on it until the elevator opens for them.
It isn't until they reach the room that Armand untangles, the door opening before him with a click of manipulated mechanisms in a dramatic little flourish. He's pulling out his phone, banishing the thoughts of before when he decides he will be paid back as promised, striding further in as he taps at the screen.
"Let me see your wardrobe," he orders as he tap tap taps away. "I assume you brought at least one formal attire."
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Safe from everything but each other.
Show off, he thinks, about the door. But it's fond, and it might not be showing off. Armand is so many miles away from human, why should he pretend otherwise?
"My wardrobe?" Oh, brother. "No, I just brought a few changes of clothes. I'm not even really unpacked."
He's shrugging off his jacket, meanwhile, and the alluded-to suitcase is there on the luggage stand, containing another pair of jeans, some slacks, pajamas, and a small variety of shirts. Another band tee, but a button-up, too. Socks. Underwear. A sweatshirt. It's not very exciting.
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Then again each time he's finishes he just tosses the offending article of clothing to the side in a big pile that seems a little too much like a 'toss' pile in organizing. The band tshirts do get more attention, apparently charmed by the history of them and how they proudly display Daniel's taste in that way Daniel's era seems to adore. Armand found the business rather tacky at first, wearing billboards across their chests, but it's grown on him in the way tacky things tend to.
Like his fledging, as it turns out. He makes a mental note to call Daniel tacky sometime in the future just to see his reaction, before he drops the shirt and sits on the bed, phone back at the ready. He picks up a pair of socks with similar fascination before they get tossed aside too.
"You really should have formal wear prepared in case of unexpected business on trips such as this, Daniel," Armand tuts. "That is fine, I know your measurements. Have you ever owned a tuxedo? I admit I find them quite charming, are they outdated yet?"
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He still believes that, eventually, Armand will find someone more suited to him. Someone who looks beautiful, who wasn't made in a panic attack. But until then, this is nice, even if it means his things get rifled through.
"I'm on a book tour, there's nothing unexpected," he says. "I've rented a tuxedo a few times. I look like a Batman villain in them."
He gestures, arms curved around him. Evocative of waddling.
"The Penguin. It looks stupid. And, look, I know I'm pushing the 'looks stupid' thing with band shirts and leather," heaven forbid anyone think Daniel Molloy is not self aware, "but I like those. And I only get one spiral into a hedonistic burnout 'death' of my mortal life."
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He lifts himself from the bed, moving over to smooth his hands over Daniel's shoulders. A subtly possessive gesture in how it lingers, and his eyes fall on Daniel's lips one time too many before he sniffs and catches his eye.
"So what does not 'look stupid?' Will you wear cardigans and slacks for the rest of eternity?" he asks with an arched brow. "It hardly matters in this moment. You owe me, and I will not be denied what is owed."
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Teasing. He sees those looks. Wonders about them, about how much Armand liked being kissed in public in a shitty corner store, how happy he was at buying tacky little sunglasses. It feels good, to be wanted. Something Daniel could get used to— knows he shouldn't, knows it's a bad idea, that Armand will get sick of him, like everyone gets sick of him, and leave permanently, not just to have space or play tag like they've been doing.
There will always be this tether, though. This bond. Armand says Daniel will resent him eventually, but what about the other way around? What happens when Armand regrets making some mean old man his first fledgling, and there's Daniel at the other side of the link, spitefully happy?
"I'm not protesting," he says, and pats Armand's side as he rests hands on his hips. "I'm just letting you know. You can dress me up in any penguin suit you want, if that's the reward you're deciding on."
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He considers the wisdom of procrastination in the form of seduction and maybe seeing if he could get Daniel's marvelous new fangs into his neck within the next few minutes, but Daniel says 'penguin suit' and he can't help but find that charming. Maybe more so how Daniel isn't fighting him about this, even playful back and forth. Just going with it, perhaps an offshoot of the man's burning curiosity. What happens next is easier to find out if it isn't impeded and allowed to unfurl.
Strange boy, though curiosity made for a dangerous vampire. A buffer against eternity.
"I'm going to get you a tuxedo," he says, eyes bright with delight as he cups Daniel's jaw. A sweet gesture, until he moves his head around like he's examining a prized dog at all angles. "Hm, and a few other pieces. Those you can do with as you will, but you will keep the tuxedo."
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Daniel wants to kiss him. Doesn't, yet.
"Alright. I'll try to restrain myself from a Burgess Meredith impression." To answer which Penguin, a question he skipped earlier, more interested in other things. "I never met him, just, like, the evil florist gangster. What's his name. Berle, I think. Because I did this chronicle project with Yyvone Craig. Motorcycles and Elvis and activism, you know?"
Nobody knows about any of that, Daniel. She's just Batgirl.
"Where the fuck am I going to wear a tuxedo, though?"
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The corners of his eyes crinkle a bit in mirth to hear the answer to his earlier question, charmed again that Daniel found his way back around to it. "I was more a fan of the Green Hornet that era I admit. If you are looking for impressions to dredge up."
He pats Daniel's cheek before pulling away, sitting elegantly on the bed and patting beside him in forceful invitation as he starts tapping away at his phone again. "Award shows, galas, fundraisers, gallery openings, opera, high society events, certain upscale restaurants- admittedly far less reason to go to the latter now, but the idea remains. Weddings, I suppose." He crinkles his nose as if that's the distasteful gathering of all of those.
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But he makes a mental note about it. Bruce Lee movies? ... Green hats? Or maybe Armand will like wuxia films, with their magical realism. More weird than not. He gets a kick out of trying to find things that fixate Armand's attention. He wants to dig into him and find the artist, because he's sure there is one, even if he's buried it.
"I hate weddings." Daniel sits beside him, and leans back on his hands with a lilt over towards his maker, so he can spy on his phone screen. Does he think someone's going to show up with a tuxedo overnight and fit him? ... He might. That might be a thing ultra-wealthy people with spooky vampire connections can make happen. "I've got a suit jacket somewhere. No, two. I've got a brown one and a navy one. I don't think I've worn either in like twenty years."
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He considers Daniel for a few moments before tapping something on screen- oh there's a price tag for whatever's happening and it is indeed eye searingly high. More expensive than Daniel's first and potentially second car high. Not billionaires though, just multi million.
"You chafe against such uniforms, I take it. Daniel Molloy is not one for button ups and ties," Armand drawls, somewhere between biting mockery and maybe a hint of fondness. "I have never been to a wedding as an invited guest. We drained several wedding parties in Paris over the years, it was good practice for the coven."
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He can talk f o r e v e r.
"But I'm bad at impressions, you heard my Mexican one already. And I dunno, I grew up poor. I feel fake, all dressed up. Money's a pain in the ass."
Ugh, look at those prices. Don't people have anything more interesting to spend money on? Like drugs.
"Did you have a favorite one? Wedding, that you crashed. Kinda romantic, doing one at night."
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He doesn't remember it. Shame, he would have been interested in that interview, if only because of the era he was quite taken with Dogma. And Osmosis Jones.
"What year was that?" he does ask, a few more taps before he pulls the phone to his ear and starts speaking to someone on the other line in smooth french. The conversation is short, the phone dropped to the side when he's done as though now they simply waited.
"You and Louis are similar in your incessant need to make your wealth bracket a singular part of your personality," he muses. Probably not a compliment. The question has him glancing over, more curious that Daniel would find anything 'kinda romantic.' The admittance makes him want to indulge so he does, taking a few moments to unearth those hunts from his memory and make a decision.
Largely that time period was dissociative for him, dull and exhausting, but just like in the catacombs the hunts were a singular pleasure to break through the muck. "Hm, there was one shortly before the Great War, on one of the bridges of the Seine. Rich enough they paid to have the water cleaned somewhat, and the dim light casting the waters black hid the sins of the city's filth. Candles floating on the water, deeply indulgent. They looked like stars dotting the stream. Celeste nearly fell in gazing upon them- she was still a fledgling at the time, easily taken with sensation.
"We stole the bride for our next show," he sounds almost nostalgic about it.
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Half spoken over Armand's conversation, but he hasn't shushed Daniel, and didn't give him warning. Whatever. He's quiet after, though, listening despite its shortness. His French is bad, he can ask where the bathrooms are and how to order drinks, say a bunch of swear words. Better at swearing in Quebecois French, though. Tabernak hits a lot harder, more fun.
"Are we?"
Daniel doesn't actually love that. He's a little weirded out by Louis' distance from the help, on most days. He just, personally, thinks wealth hoarding is a low-grade mental illness. And he thinks Armand agrees, even if he doesn't realize it. Daniel lurking with his ice pick ready to go hunting in frozen fossil records. Mansions and rich people weddings and crypto bros. Got your number, you weirdo. Maybe he'll ramble about this to Armand if they talk more about it, but for now, he's distracted by listening to a slightly horrifying, but aesthetically pleasing, story of murder and abduction.
"At least they had a nice party before she became a human sacrifice." A beat. "Do you miss that kind of thing? In general, I don't need us to go stomping around in a minefield. But you had a real creative outlet, with all that."
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He preferred the internet in the nineties. Slower paced in all things and wild, bramble growth.
"You are like Louis in many ways besides. Your complicated relationship with sexuality, for example," Armand offers, a glance over with an innocent enough look that says yeah, this is basically meant to get under Daniel's skin. Or perhaps he just enjoys that it does, wants to dissect Daniel and see what part of it makes him squirm.
Maybe literally, Daniel is much more durable now. He wonders if vivisection is counter culture enough for Daniel's taste or one of those things that would tip his fledgling into needless histrionics over his own well-being. Poor Daniel, tortured in a decidedly mild manner for a few measly days when he spent several decades putting his own brain in a blender for a string of momentary highs.
"She spent most of the party mulling in increasing dismay over 'to death do us part' and the seeming eternity of it. I found that a poetic touch," Armand answers, then tilts his head at the question. "I do not miss that time period, no. I did not lie when I told Louis it was a job I never desired and was trapped in."
A beat. Tentatively, as if half expecting Daniel to use any sliver of truth against him, he offers, "I suppose if there was anything worth missing it was the plays themselves, more so when we began working with the projectors. I've always found mixed media compelling."
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Louis knows he's gay, but feels bad about it. Daniel knows he's not, and feels fine about it most days, except when he thinks too hard about it, and feels like he should have died in the AIDS crisis. He also knows he sort of is, but he isn't compelled by the lifestyle (and there's something to be said for the fact that he considers it a lifestyle, Boomer Uses Slurs and Thinks Gays Are Weird, news at 10), and he's never been a legitimate or honest member of a community. He's probably a traitor, actually. So what business does he have claiming any of it?
Dumber, like he said. He knows, but he doesn't.
Meanwhile. He considers Armand, and his cartoons.
"Shadow plays, Magic Lanterns, Rauschenberg... Who Framed Roger Rabbit."
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There's the doe eyes again, pure, weaponized Rashid purely to be mean for no real reason than he likes it. He will not, can not allow himself to register the enormity of what it means that Daniel Molloy is the first and only person he's ever been ugly with in a way that felt freeing.
Given the ugliness it's probably a bit jarring when Armand goes bright suddenly, an honest to god grin. "A delightful piece, was it not?"
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Oh there they are, the big innocent eyes— an attempt at them, anyway, the effect is somewhat different without the contacts. Daniel, foolishly, had assumed that occasional glint was from corrective lenses. Who wears colored brown contacts? Well, somebody whose eyes are fucking orange, it turns out.
Weird, maybe. Daniel likes this better. The innocence is surreal now, having an animal quality, as though Armand really has no idea why he should bother pretending to be human at all, and this expression signifies something unrelated to Fake Rashid's accidental Bambi eyes.
Ppfft. Toothy smile, over cartoons.
"You're such a dork," he says, as if that's a perfectly normal thing to call a five hundred year old monster. He reaches up, touches his maker's chin, tilts his head down a little to look at him. A heartbeat later and he's moving away to grab his laptop.
"C'mere I'm gonna show you something." C'mere, they're already sitting in bed together. Look. Okay. He's pulling something up on YouTube, of all things, and he hits play and sets the laptop on the nightstand. 1893's Rock & Rule. It's beautiful, it's horrible. "So do you actually want to do the puzzle, or did you summon somebody to come in here and measure my ankles?"
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At times it is difficult not to flee on that knowledge alone, and yet here they are. Daniel always pondering away, sharp observations Armand must now wait for Daniel to divulge should he wish to. He must accept any seeds planted are ones he will not see until they bloom.
He blinks once at being called a dork, as though this is a novel experience to consider- because it is, given most vampires are flowery dramatic shitheads who wouldn't be caught dead using the word 'dork' and they're ninety percent of his social life. The look grows sharper when Daniel touches his chin, as though waiting for a kiss he may or may not return sweetly or with a bite-
No, he's being shown a video. Armand considers being disappointed by that for all of a moment before ah! Well, the bizarre style immediately grabs him, and it's a real shame he was busy playing mutual toxic fucked up Stepford wife bullshit with Louis in the eighties because he'd love the theatrical, puffed up weirdness of it all. "Why do the creatures look like that?" he asks, clearly charmed by it.
Enough he ignores Daniel for a few moments, shifting only to lean against him somewhere between sweetly and seeming very much like he's using Daniel as convenient, comfortable furniture. "Hm? We can do both." So yes, summoned for ankle measuring. "If you're good and do not squirm it will be over before you know it."
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Couldn't have been much, right? Louis acted like Armand was so normal. Just a person who, on good days, he was sick of. He didn't act like he was trapped with a psychopath megalodon.
Daniel lets Armand lean on him, and even slings an arm around his middle so that he doesn't slide away while he leans to fish the puzzle out of wherever he's got it stowed. Bag, maybe. Mysterious of the narrative. If they actually want to do it, they'll have to move to a table (or pull a door off of the hutch, whatever), but they can sort the pieces by color in the box.
"I've never been good once in my entire fucking life." He flops the box down. Behold. Fish. "Do you sound like a slightly creepy, slightly horny mad scientist on purpose?"
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The truth is a guy who genuinely enjoys picking lint off the sofa and keeping everything in their neat little boxes with a side passion in dissection is one who feels a very genuine flare of interest on the matter. Even as he settles for mirroring Daniel's enthusiasm as a safety precaution, at least until he gets a better understanding of why it is Daniel brought this before him.
He tries not to get attached to the idea that each of these little offerings, puzzles and delightful animations, are offerings from Daniel's own interest with sincere intent. Given both their track records there's a good chance that would end in fire and brimstone one way or another. At least the heat is comfortable, as is Daniel's well known personal failings with interpersonal relationships. Some might call that common ground and not tactical advantage.
Anyway Armand considers saying Daniel was very good in San Francisco when Armand made him be, but he has the foresight to register he may be denied puzzles if he casually brings up Daniel's torture and all the histrionics his fledgling fell into about it. Worse, he might move away and Armand is quite cozy where he is, reaching to pluck up a puzzle piece and examine it.
"Then squirm and prolong the process, I will enjoy myself either way." Daniel's discomfort was and is cute, like abandoned animals in cardboard boxes probably. He smothers his own amusement when Daniel calls him a mad scientist. Unfortunate the bond likely gives away he enjoys the comparison more than when people call him otherworldly in his beauty or something similar.
"Do you enjoy it? For how often you pin your subjects to squirm under your relentless gaze perhaps you would enjoy being examined until you have nothing left to give."
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Everyone does. Armand is going to. It'll look different, because Armand is who (and what) he is. Might take longer, too, with the way time doesn't hit the same for vampires, particularly not ancient ones whose fucked up makers lived at the same time as Actual Jesus Christ.
But it'll happen. So here are some cartoons, and here is a puzzle, and maybe Armand will stay past measuring him for a suit he'll never wear. Daniel isn't Louis, he isn't Lestat, he isn't beautiful or compelling, he isn't charming, he isn't actually very nice. There's no reason for Armand to stick around. Daniel has to figure something out.
A small chuckle. Mad scientist does suit him. What a freak.
"I did write a memoir," he points out. "Putting myself through the thing I put other people through, more or less."
Joke's on Armand. There's nothing to give to begin with. It's all there in the book, the one without mention of Louis or Armand in San Fransisco. Just stories, things that have happened to him, things he thinks about, false depth. But he's a good writer. It looks endless.
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"You would find the experience far different, having an antagonistic creature dissect every word to find the rot underneath the gilding," Armand answers, though rather than accusation he almost sounds approving, in his own way. A clever way of keeping control of the narrative, to protect himself, Daniel might be a survivor after all.
He begins sorting the pieces as he speaks, some system that seems based on shape and color.
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Just a touch wry, shoulder to shoulder with the creature that tortured him for a week. A shard of ice, and all that. A mystery, still, why Armand didn't just get rid of him in the ensuing fifty years, why he's content with having given an eager black hole this unlife, these powers, such healing and stability.
Daniel keeps one arm around Armand, low on his hips, and he thinks of holding Alice this way; comfortable, casual, rarely the arm over her shoulders. Was it more like a hug, or more like people were less likely to notice? Insert slur here hooker Daniel Molloy, making it with a woman out of his league.
Well, anyway.
"I've never been creative. Not real creativity, like you with your animations." (Louis with photography, Lestat with music, Marius with painting...) "All I've got is poking around at other people."
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Cuddled up, even, to the man who heralded his divorce. Slotted into his side and enjoying it more than he wishes he realized.
"I directed, I did not create," he answers after a beat, hands moving a little faster with the satisfying work of organizing and sorting. Despite the deflection he cannot help a sliver of surprised pride at the animations being considered at all. "Self effacement- you do not consider writing creation? Your damnable book and all it's kohl caked admirers with chipped black nail polish and mournful sighs are not proof?
"What do you consider yourself then, a taxidermist? A curator? A nosy neighbor peeking through the windows, jotting notes?"
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Maybe Daniel had wanted to be creative. Maybe it's part of why Louis took a particular shine to him, a kid who so dearly wanted to have that spark, the fount of it pouring out of him— but it wasn't creation, it was hunger. Still is.
He watches Armand sort, not yet compelled to help out. It's more satisfying to observe him, and shift just a little bit to get more comfortable. Practically cuddled up, indeed. He wonders if the ancient vampire would mind if he leaned in enough to nose through his silky hair, enjoy the dense texture of midnight strands. But he's not sure where they land on idle affections. They did what they did, but they didn't go further, and that line drawn is still there, for Daniel.
Does Armand actually want him? ... Does it matter? Is Daniel's craterd self-esteem too good for experimentation?
"I like the truth of things, I guess. Even when it's horrible. Especially when, if my work suggests anything. And the truth of myself is pretty fucking horrible, when you get right down to it. Maybe I've got great self-worth after all."
He's got jokes!
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Now he seems curious about making piles of the pieces in similar shapes, for whatever reason. Not helpful but at this point he seems to be going about the puzzle not unlike a kid just making a mess or making piles of his toys instead. Focused on it as he leans against Daniel, though his attention couldn't be more obviously on Daniel himself.
Enough that he even breaks his nonchalance to look to Daniel, assessing as he asks, "What is the truth of Daniel Molloy 'when you get right down to it,' then?"
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Naughty ancient mad scientist. Though Daniel thinks that some of this might be actual, genuine curiosity on Armand's part. Neither of them have any experience with being what they are to each other. Pretty nuts. His tone is teasing, anyway. Whether or not it's intentional, it's kinda funny that he's doing it.
"I'm just some asshole with no friends and a completely estranged family."
Horrible, as noted. But some horrible things are ordinary, and isn't that worse? There's more he could say, now. He could talk about how sometimes, he thinks Louis would be disappointed in him, and it's an unpleasant thought. But not as unpleasant as the idea of eating rats and barricading himself away from the world except to get in fights. He knows he should feel bad about murdering people, and he feels a little bad over not feeling at all bad. But still not as bad as he should.
He flips over a puzzle piece. Fish nose.