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}
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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.