Armand looks fractionally more relaxed compared to when he first sat down, but Armand still looks like a fucking alien, to Daniel. His perspective is definitely skewed, biased thanks to the whole of it all, but here we are.
"If you've got any good hookups for repurposing identities, I'm very happy to take business recommendations," he says, and means it. Something he's spoken to Louis about, just a little, but he's been busy with too much else to worry about it. Maniel Dolloy, rejected, Elvis Presley, rejected. He'll think of something. "Writing is one thing. I'll let somebody else fall on the paperwork grenade for being the first publicly out vampire who wants to sue Social Security for retirement money."
It does not really occur to him to think of his ex-wives or his daughters. They were collectively, and individually, uninterested in engaging with his illness; the youngest girl offered to make plans to come stay with him 'in a year or two, or three?' in a voice that sounded like she had a gun to her own head. We'll see, kiddo, and they both knew he was never going to let her, and she was a little sad, but mostly relieved. He gets to 'leave' everyone a shitload of money, and it will be the happiest he's ever made them.
"I like New York, I like the idea of having a house in New York. I really like the idea of having a house in New York ready to go in a hundred years whenever I feel like coming back."
Temporary, his plans. He doesn't have the grace of another forty years of plausible deniability— he'll have to move around more often than the others, and keep an even lower profile. Indulging in what he can now feels a little bit desperate, and he recognizes that, even while he focuses on it being a celebration of a huge change.
no subject
"If you've got any good hookups for repurposing identities, I'm very happy to take business recommendations," he says, and means it. Something he's spoken to Louis about, just a little, but he's been busy with too much else to worry about it. Maniel Dolloy, rejected, Elvis Presley, rejected. He'll think of something. "Writing is one thing. I'll let somebody else fall on the paperwork grenade for being the first publicly out vampire who wants to sue Social Security for retirement money."
It does not really occur to him to think of his ex-wives or his daughters. They were collectively, and individually, uninterested in engaging with his illness; the youngest girl offered to make plans to come stay with him 'in a year or two, or three?' in a voice that sounded like she had a gun to her own head. We'll see, kiddo, and they both knew he was never going to let her, and she was a little sad, but mostly relieved. He gets to 'leave' everyone a shitload of money, and it will be the happiest he's ever made them.
"I like New York, I like the idea of having a house in New York. I really like the idea of having a house in New York ready to go in a hundred years whenever I feel like coming back."
Temporary, his plans. He doesn't have the grace of another forty years of plausible deniability— he'll have to move around more often than the others, and keep an even lower profile. Indulging in what he can now feels a little bit desperate, and he recognizes that, even while he focuses on it being a celebration of a huge change.