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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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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.
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And besides. He's found Armand. Multiple times. As far as Daniel's concerned, he's won.
Yet—
Still, the worry. Soothed by his maker's presence. There's something smug about Daniel again, like Armand showing up here is as good as Daniel finding him in the first place. Maybe it is.
"I'm surprised," he admits. "But I like it. If nobody else does, that's on you. I'm just along for the ride."
Daniel keeps the book, and heads to the front. A reading, then some questions posed by a bookshop employee enjoying an evening playing moderator, then, once more: signing.
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Twink's got it down bad for grandpa, a boy nearby thinks. Armand resists the urge to pierce the boy's mind in senseless irritation before the takes a seat to watch the reading.
He ends up on the line, despite his better sense. For a few moments he considers going to the bookshop's little cafe and waiting to see if Daniel would join him when he was done, a truncated form of the chase before. No, he finds he wants to see what Daniel writes this time. The playacting is meaningless noise, camouflage, but the note means something.
Which is why he places the book on Daniel's table when it's his turn. Some were disappointed it wasn't a more daring, intense or sexier scene read. Armand's big brown eyes make it look like he is so genuinely sorry about that. Really.
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He slides the book to himself. Cracks it open. Picks up the marker.
"I think it was a good selection," he says as he begins to write. "Who am I making it out to?"
Not like it matters.
(Roses are red
Violets are blue
I always think of this one song from a cartoon movie from the 60s when this rhyme happens. Judy Garland is a cat getting sex trafficked.
Roses can be red
Violets are violet
It's nice to see you again.
DM)
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He shouldn't be here. Daniel is a damning creature already, tempting him with games, the lure of the chase. Tempting his curiosity, a weakness and strength both. He leans unabashedly to read the message, a slow blink as he processes it.
Juvenile. He isn't sure if this cartoon movie reference is meant to be a pointed insult of some personal sort. Trite, ridiculous from a writer of Daniel's caliber, and the last line his eyes linger on. It should be ineffective, yet when he pulls the book to himself he runs his finger over the last line. Stupid, stupid boy.
So, probably not particularly shocking when he turns and leaves without saying a word. Some real spooked cat behavior, ignoring the few pointed thoughts of rude for how he slips away without even a thank you. Of course then the next book signing follows the day after, all set up for another long stretch of Armand shaped silence as he copes through petulant avoidance and centuries wary skewed perception of time. Instead he's sitting at the table Daniel's meant to be signing at, any employee who walks over suddenly turning around as if remembering something else.
Ramones t-shirt and worn jeans this time, boots and loose curls around his face with no contacts this time. Most might think ah, there's no higher purpose to these choices, but the costume choice of a former theater director is never pointless. So, symbolic, overblown lack of contacts and a reflection of Daniel's old aesthetic. What could this mind game possibly mean.
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But still funny, he'd say. (Because it was him.)
He said he wasn't going to follow Armand again. Does Armand believe him? Does Armand know that Daniel is definitely lying? It's only the sense he's developed, this ability to know his maker is nearby, that keeps him from cancelling the next day.
A pause, as he comes in. Messenger bag over his shoulder, phone in hand, answering texts to his assistant, ignoring texts from Raglan. A vampire. A costume. For a brief insane moment he wonders if Armand stole the shirt from his own closet— but when would he have time? He looks at him, stopped there two yards away, and does not wonder what this mind game means. He doesn't think it's a game. He thinks it's Armand silently asking him if he's doing it right this time. Even if Armand doesn't know what's what it is.
Daniel puts his phone in his bag, and moves to the table. Walks behind it as he sets his bag down, takes a few steps towards the 'young man' sitting there, until he's close enough to touch his shoulder, which he does. And then he bends and kisses the top of his head.
"Hey."
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Not that he'll admit it, yet. No, that throw away line isn't what captures his attention anyway. The last line he's fixated on to an absurd and likely pointless degree. It's why he's here now, in a way, regarding Daniel with a tilt of the head and, for once, all eyes averted from them by force. No quirky little mental comments about their age, their behavior, just them ignored in a bustling little book shop.
It's easier to imagine it all as a game, watching Daniel approach, the pause as he registers Armand at all. A game until Daniel comes over and kisses the top of his head in way that leaves Armand speechless for a moment. Casual, natural affection that is surely mockery, followed by no mockery at all. It makes Armand want to pin him to the table and drain him again only to feed him everything Armand is right back. It makes him want to make Daniel crawl for his blood, the red line of it between them like an unbreakable, blasphemous connection.
He stares up at Daniel with big, wide eyes for a stunned moment, even if the thrum of their bond could only be called ravenously possessive. "You were nearly late. Half the staff believe your insistence on night signings is absurd pageantry."
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Yes. Good. An animal part of himself curls around that feeling, the thread that connects them. The only unbreakable thing he's ever had in his life.
(Maybe they can do that later. The blood thing.)
"Yeah, my Uber got stuck behind a Tesla that gave up because it couldn't tell that an empty coffee cup wasn't a traffic light."
What a fascinating modern world they live in, huh? Daniel ends up sitting down next to Armand, and he can't help the contented feeling he radiates. It's nice to see you again. It was. It is. Daniel wants to hang out with him, annoy the shit out of him, dissect his freak brain, get smothered by boa constrictor cuddling in the afternoons.
"Feel like supervising?"
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Anyway. "Traveling by foot would be safer, and better practice for managing the shifting currents of time around you." Translation: practice your speedy vampire shit more and don't get into a Tesla related car crash. Fire and all that. Another person goes glassy eyed when they get close, turning and nearly running into a shelf.
"I could be persuaded. As they say, what's in it for me?" he asks, leaning a touch closer where they sit.
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"A piano could fall on me, on foot."
Food for thought. He's out here in the wild, basically anything can go wrong. Might as well take a cab if he's going to check his email on the ride over.
But anyway. He looks at Armand, and considers what might tempt his interest (more than it's already obviously tempted), and further, what might be the worst possible thing to try. There's always the wildcard option, which would be a cop-out with anyone else, but with Armand, would be like putting his entire head into an open crocodile mouth.
"I'll let you pick what we do after. No promises that I won't complain. But I'll cooperate."
Daniel doesn't need Armand's help, here. He's not trying to bribe him for his vital assistance. He's just giving this ticket out because he's reckless and he wants Armand to stick around.
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Heresy, one Daniel taunts at every turn. Poor behavior, as mentioned. Yes, that world too intent to take Daniel away in any number of ways.
He stews a little, at least until Daniel's offered payment snaps his attention with all the interest of a shark scenting blood in the water. Free reign is a dangerous thing to offer, Daniel knows it's a dangerous thing to offer, and that fact is what tempts him more.
"Hm," Armand answers, a few long moments before he tilts his head in the affirmative. "Very well."
The intricate rituals to just spend time together and have future plans, etc.
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One of those 'yeah whatever' death scenarios, for Daniel. A car crash could also kill a mortal. He should be compassionately euthanized by now, and this is borrowed time. Free years. The mindless fun afterparty. He doesn't give a fuck about dying.
(... Doesn't he? Sometimes he thinks about how long Armand waited to make a fledgling. Maybe he would just compartmentalize Daniel's demise away like he has everything else, if there was even very much to compartmentalize. But maybe it would be bad. Bad enough that Daniel wouldn't want to risk it.)
A smile, then. He knew Armand would accept, but it still feels nice.
"Deal."
He doesn't lean in, but shifts just slightly, like he might be about to. Like he might be considering closing the gap of space between them and stealing a kiss. He doesn't. A tease, or indecision? The world will never know. He slides a hand onto Armand's knee instead.
"Ready?"
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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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