Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He is unharmed. 

The mental image Armand sends Louis is of Daniel slumped at his feet, covered in blood and dust. The newly-made vampire groans weakly against the same half-destroyed wall Armand had allowed himself to be thrown against just hours before. Blood seeps slowly from Daniel's neck. The bite marks and slashes over his torso, wrists and thighs have healed. The crusts of blood that remain map out exactly what Armand has done to him. 

Well, relatively speaking. 

What he says next, he chooses also to speak aloud. Unnecessary, but his flair for the dramatic is never far from the surface. 

“I’m leaving, as you requested. Our fledgling will be alone and starving. Completely defenseless.” The anger and disbelief in Daniel’s eyes means nothing to him. He flashes him an insincerely apologetic smile. “I’m sure he’ll work it out.”

At any other point in their long and, in Armand’s view, mostly harmonious companionship, the rage from Louis’ end of the connection might have given him pause. But there has never been another point at which he has been so thoroughly backed into a corner. 

What Louis fails to understand is that this is what happens when you love someone. And Armand, who has worked harder for love than most, and who perhaps deserves it less, understands love very well. He knows about the many forms it takes. He know the lengths to which he will go to keep it. The masks he wears for it to endure. He has concealed the very worst of himself, molded himself to be enough for eternity, protected Louis from himself without need for request or discussion.  

So, Louis’ rage does nothing. 

What happened to “I cannot do it? " Louis’ voice is ragged. 

Armand doesn’t reply immediately, taking vicious pleasure in making him wait. The fear and uncertainty Daniel must feel at hearing only parts of their conversation only adds to his enjoyment of the moment. 

He lets out a long sigh. 

“That? Well, it appears that when there’s enough to fight for, I can.”

Armand —

“We had planned to do it together after the interview, hadn’t we?” He smirks at Daniel, watching with interest as small convulsions start to course through him and his expression shifts to barely restrained panic. 

Not like this. Surely you can’t think I’d still want—

“And yet, here I am,” Armand tilts his head to the side in an exaggerated movement better suited to a theatre. He crouches down so he and Daniel are face-to-face. Will he miss those eyes, he wonders. He had studied them more often than he should in the last two weeks. But beautiful as they may be, they belong to the man who had seen through him to his rotten core. He won’t miss that.  

Armand rakes one nail down the side of Daniel’s face. Momentarily he loses himself in the idea of tearing those eyes out until a sliver of panic from Louis’ side of their connection brings him back to himself. 

Here you are what? Armand?

“Forgive me,” he says, pulling himself back to the thread of conversation. “Here I am, once again, carrying out your wishes when you cannot. Giving you what you asked for when you are in no fit state to do so yourself.” 

Lestat was right, you are a cunt.

Armand stands. “Do take care of our boy, Louis,” he says.  

"You’re leaving?” Daniel says, his head still woozy. 

Armand pauses in the archway, his back to him. 

“You heard what I said.”

“But — but — you can’t just fuck off now!” 

Armand makes a sound that isn’t quite a laugh. 

“Can’t I?” he says. “What happens to you now is no concern of mine. But even if it was, you have a particular skill, don’t you? An ability to exploit the information with which you have been entrusted to its fullest potential. You would do well to make use of that.”

“Armand!”

“The next part isn’t going to be very dignified,” Armand says. “But you know that. You may wish to move to the bathroom.” 

“Fuck. You.”

“Up to you. I’m sure you know best.” 

Sagging against the wall, Daniel watches Armand disappear from sight and wonders how the fuck he got himself into this situation. 

Two hours earlier

Louis has gone. Daniel watches the empty hallway, half-stunned, until the intruding crackle of flames from his laptop finally attracts his attention. He grabs a thick, possibly priceless, rug from the floor and smothers the fire before it becomes an explosion. 

The very small portion of his brain not currently developing a plan to get the fuck out of the apartment notes that the lack of fire alarm is, well, alarming. 

His thoughts turn to the injured vampire in the next room and the distinctly unfriendly look he gave him before chasing after Louis. His skin turns cold and clammy. 

Time to go.  

It takes approximately three minutes to grab the absolute essentials from his room: phone, notebooks, wallet, fuck the clothes, fuck the toiletries, passport. Into a holdall and he’s out of the door, through the hallway, up the stairs and on his way out. His heart pounds as he hurries down the - has it always been this fucking long? - corridor to the elevator, thoughts jumbled. Did he back his files up? Probably. Is there any way he can check? Fuck, no. Do life insurance policies pay when said policy holders put themselves in stupidly dangerous situations? Unknown. Hopefully yes. Has he ever been this scared before? Not since San Francisco. 

As the elevator draws closer he focuses on keeping breathing, keeping moving, keeping his eyes on the doors. Just as he presses the call button, a crash shakes the apartment. 

Then another. 

Another. 

Ah, fuck. Don’t you fucking dare look back.  

He looks back. 

There’s no one there. 

Behind him, a whooshing sound as the elevator doors open. He gasps out a jagged, relieved sob and turns. 

Armand is standing in front of him. 

His eyes are blank, rimmed-red, face slashed with claw marks and streaked with blood. He stretches his neck out and to the side in an unnatural movement and there’s a chilling, crunching sound as what Daniel assumes to be vertebrae slip back into place. He lifts his lips to bare the tips of his fangs. 

Before Daniel can react, he is slammed into the back of the elevator. He looks up. For a moment Armand hesitates, then grips the left side of Daniel’s head and bites deeply into his neck. The shock renders him immobile. All he can do is stare, agonized, at the mirrored walls reflecting the delicate column of Armand’s throat, the cold lips moving greedily over his neck. His own twitching hands hanging uselessly in the air. 

The doors start to close. Armand’s fangs slide out and he’s being pulled backwards. The sudden movement coupled with the gush of blood spilling from his neck and over his chest awakens whatever survival instinct he has left and he struggles. When he shoves at Armand and realizes he might as well be pushing a statue, his terror finally ignites and he starts fighting for real. 

As he kicks and scratches and grabs, Armand slides his arm up to the back of his neck and hooks his nails through the collar of his shirt. Then his legs are kicked out from under him and Armand starts to drag him along the floor.

Daniel twists and flails, slipping in his own blood. He crashes heavily onto one knee, the shattering sound and his accompanying scream echoing through the hallway, but Armand doesn’t stop. It’s only when his nails shred all the way through the collar and he loses grip, dropping Daniel to the floor, that he pauses. The remains of the shirt are ripped away and he goes for the back of Daniel’s t-shirt before continuing to pull him along behind him. Nails break through the fabric and slide up to the junction where his spinal column meets the base of his skull. The occiput Daniel thinks as his glasses go flying off to one side, though why that piece of information has bubbled to the surface right now is beyond him. 

He keeps fighting, scrabbling really, because what can one old man with blood loss do against an immeasurably strong, five-hundred-year-old vampire? He tries to use his weight as resistance against the ground but it’s a losing battle against the cold, polished floor and the blood spilling from his neck. He notices how very red the blood is. He notices how weak he’s getting. 

Eventually he stops fighting.  

Armand drags him through wide, dimly lit corridors, back to the apartment. Past the magnolia tree, past the long, scorch-marked table, across the floor to the empty, broken wall where the Bacon triptych used to be. 

He’s pulled up onto his knees and pushed back, hard, into the dust and plaster. There’s a cracking sound as his head meets the wall and the metallic tang of fresh blood as it starts to trickle down the back of his neck. 

He looks up. 

“Are you going to kill me?” Daniel asks.

There’s no point reminding him of Louis' threat. If he’s learned anything about Armand both in San Francisco and Dubai, it's that he’s more of a seek forgiveness than ask permission kind of a vampire. And the forgiveness part depends very much on how much of a shit he gives in the first place. Daniel hates to put himself down but the stakes here are embarrassingly low. 

“Yes,” Armand says. “And no.” He presses his lips together in an expression that isn’t quite a smile. “Technically, yes.” 

“You’re going to turn me?” Daniel says as the meaning sinks in. “What the fuck. No!”

“Louis offered it to you.”

“And I told him no.”

Armand kneels in front of him. A moment of stillness, a sense of stepping out of time, as he’s caught in the gaze of Armand’s wide, amber eyes. Then, a dizzying lurch of disorientation as he starts to lose consciousness. 

Armand slaps Daniel’s face to stop him from passing out. “As I thought,” he says. “I don’t have time or patience to listen to false refusals. Louis sensed your insincerity when he offered it to you.”

“And I told you two fucks to stay out of my head.”

“You told him no, but you thought about it then, just as you have thought about it since San Francisco.” 

“Try again, pal.” 

“I don’t need to try, Daniel. I know.” Armand’s voice drops to a soft lull. He draws closer. “I know all about the nights you searched for a way out of your marriages. The nights when the trappings of a conventional life threatened to suffocate you. The nights when your addictions - one after another - failed to fill the emptiness. Every night since your diagnosis. You told yourself you’d lived a full life, but still you thought about it.”

“Don’t try to pull that shit on me again. I’m not who I was in San Francisco. You can’t convince me.”

“No need.” Armand slips fingers through Daniel’s blood-soaked curls and taps the side of his head. “It’s all in here.”  

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you. I’ve lived my life. I’m content.”

“Content? Hmm.” Armand’s upper lip curls. “Yet you continue: online classes; a new book in the works; travelling halfway across the globe to interview one of the most prolific killers in history.” 

“It’s called a fucking job Armand,” Daniel wheezes. “Remember when you had one?”

“That’s not contentment, that’s desperation. You’re terrified you haven’t made a mark, that Daniel Molloy won’t be remembered. You’re still as in love with the thought of immortality as you ever were.” 

Daniel stares up defiantly. He is met with a faint smile that borders on pity.  

“And what do you think will happen when you return to your life of blood tests and scans and medical management? You write the book. Maybe this time you publish it. You try to pay your way back into your daughters’ lives. Again. You fail. Again. You take your medication. You record the online classes you’re too frail to teach in person.” 

“Fuck you.” He wants to accuse Armand of mind-fucking him again, but somewhere in this sickening call back to San Francisco there’s more than a grain of truth. He feels the prickling of tears start to form. 

“You hope for good reviews. You take your medication. You hope the Pulitzers and the literary journals and the notoriety are enough. You take your medication—” 

“Stop.”

“You hope its enough. But deep down you know the truth. In - what? - ten, twenty years, no one will remember.” Armand’s expression turns vicious. “It will be as if you never existed.”

“Stop. Just fucking stop.”  

Armand leans close to his ear. “You could end that now,” he whispers. “All your fears of a wasted, inconsequential life: gone. This isn’t the seventies. You don’t need ushering towards life or death. You want it. Let me give it to you.”

Daniel tastes salt and blood on his lips. He wants to shout. He wants to argue. Maybe the blood loss stops him. Maybe the concussion. In truth, it’s neither. A wounded sound escapes from his lips.

Slowly, as the world swims around him, Daniel nods. 

Armand stands and extends his hand in a disconcertingly polite gesture, guiding Daniel so they sit side-by-side on the concrete step, backs to the damaged wall. He wraps an arm around Daniel's shoulders and, not strong enough to do anything else, Daniel leans against him. Armand brings his other arm around to stroke at his jaw, the sense memory from almost fifty years ago strong enough that Daniel tightens his arms around him in response. An arctic finger ghosts across his throat. Then Armand leans back.  

“You deserve to be in hell with me, after all.”

As Daniel frowns, trying to parse his meaning, Armand’s fangs drop and he is on him. The sharpness of a razor, then a wet, rending sound as his neck is torn open again. The pain has his eyes rolling back but alongside that, as the blood leaves his body, a rush he hasn’t felt since before his last rehab, then desire, the strength of which he hasn’t felt in maybe longer, just from the press of Armand’s mouth against his skin. 

Needy moans from Armand saturate the air as he starts to drink in earnest, creating minute reverberations that travel from his neck down his body. He becomes distantly aware of another voice, his own, desperate and guttural, as he feels his body react to the violent intimacy of being drained.  

It’s quick. Soon he can barely see. He’s almost completely numb except for the place from where Armand is feeding and the pinpricks of nails in his scalp, holding his head up. All he can smell is blood. He’s read somewhere that hearing is the last of the senses to go, and maybe that’s right because as the light in the room dims, the sounds heighten. His laboured breath, Armand’s swallows, the desperate sighs he presses into the wounds, the rustle and friction of their clothing as they move against each other. His heartbeat, quietly racing at first, now slow and thunderous. 

Not that Daniel has any experience of these things, but when his vision fades to nothing, eyelids closing like heavy weights, he starts to wonder if this has all been some fucked-up trick and Armand simply plans to kill him. He tries to move, to make a sound to signal that this has gone on too long, but he can’t. 

Eventually, even the sounds grow duller, duller duller. Pieces of his life flash through his mind and he drifts. Soon it becomes hard to hold onto a single thought. He tries to comfort himself, to give into it, convince himself that it’s okay, really, to let go. His heartbeats are so far apart that he’s sure it won’t be long. Then a jolt as he feels Armand’s body hitch. A stream of words he can’t comprehend. A dizzying movement as his head is tipped back. A cold, blunt pressure as his mouth is pressed against Armand’s neck. He feels something flowing, wet and thick. 

Blood. 

He drinks. 

He’s heard this described as transformation and finally he understands. From the moment it floods his mouth something shifts inside him and he’s lost on a wave of pure heat and sensation. It should be alien, this instinct to take the blood of another into himself, but along with the overpowering hunger, something about it feels like reminiscence. 

He drinks. 

He’s not sure how long it is until he starts to come back to himself. Careful fingers coax his head away. The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Armand, the blazing sunset of his irises, hair wild and haloed by harsh, artificial light.  

“Let me,” Armand says, lifting Daniel’s wrist to his lips. There’s a flash of teeth, then he bites down hard. 

“Jesus, Armand,” Daniel winces, “I thought you’d finished your — aah fuck,” he says as he is overwhelmed again with the uncomplicated pleasure of being fed from. His fingertips feel itchy and there’s an uncomfortably full feeling in his gums and —  oh shit, are those fangs?  

For a moment he swears he starts hallucinating: the apartment overlaid with a wild garden of rosemary, sweet jasmine and cloying lilies. He’s been here before, he thinks, but it had been a riot of purples, whites and yellows. He blinks woozily and he’s back in Dubai.

“What the fuck was that?” he says, but Armand is occupied with sucking the blood from his veins. Their blood now, he supposes. He’s not quite sure how that makes him feel.  

“You need to take my blood again,” Armand says, when he finally slides out of Daniel’s wrist. He offers him his own.

At the mention of blood, Daniel feels his fangs start to extend. Armand’s look of amusement turns to surprise when Daniel goes for his neck again, but he allows it. More than allows it, grabbing Daniel and pulling him towards him with enough strength to shred the remains of his t-shirt. The t-shirt goes on the floor. When Daniel, unused to his strength, claws the back of Armand’s shirt to ribbons, that goes the same way. 

Daniel loses count of the times they go back and forth, back and forth. He extrapolates from the sounds Armand is making that he has a preference for being bitten on the chest and neck. As for Daniel, right now everything feels good. It gets better when Armand unbuckles his jeans, slips them down his legs and opens up a blood vessel on his inner thigh that has him gasping and snarling his fingers in Armand’s hair to keep him in place, only peripherally aware of how hard he is. He looks down to see his chest covered in shallow bite marks. Armand looks up from his hip, his own neck and chest a mess of drying, dark-red blood. 

He’s not sure how much time passes before it becomes less a blood exchange and more lazy bites, lips and tongues sliding across skin, working wounds closed, then open, over and over again. It occurs to him that there’s something a little undignified about nearly coming from a bite to the lower abdomen. It occurs to him that, compared to the vampire turnings Louis has described, this may have crossed a boundary. 

They slow. 

Finally, they stop. 

Daniel is lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He understands, now, why vampires crave this like sex. Crave it while having sex, probably. And the intimacy. Christ. Louis was right about that. Once Armand’s blood had pulled him back from the brink of death, once he’d really tasted it, he would have let Armand do anything he wanted. Maybe now, with the life he thought all but over stretching out in front of him, maybe they could — 

He turns onto his elbow and reaches for Armand, who lies on his side, facing him. He interlaces his rapidly cooling fingers with Armand’s icy hand, supposes he can admit, now, that there was never a time that he didn’t find him beautiful. Never a time, which uncomfortably includes San Francisco, that he didn’t want him. That he wasn’t drawn to him. Armand stares back. He looks as stunned as Daniel feels. 

“I don’t understand why you offered it to me, now. But thank you,” Daniel says softly. He doesn’t want to break the moment, but he doesn’t want to leave it unsaid. 

The change in Armand is instant. He pushes Daniel away and stands, glaring at him.  

“You think I did this for you?” he says, packing an impressive amount of derision into the word you. “After what you did to me?”  

“What?” Daniel starts to get to his feet but Armand makes a loose, shooing gesture with his wrist and he finds himself pinned against the wall. Armand closes his eyes, muttering softly to himself. 

The next thing Daniel hears from him is: “I’m leaving.” 

“Rashid!” Daniel’s fingers tremble as he pulls his jeans on. Thank fuck they survived. “Rashid? Are you there?”

Silence. 

“Alexa? Siri? Whoever the fuck else lives in Armand’s iPad ... I need to speak to Rashid.”

Daniel almost gives up until he hears a crackle and —- 

“Mr. Molloy? Is everything alright?”

“No, Rashid, it fucking is not. Armand’s turned me and run off and you know what happens next. You and the others need to get out.”

“Do you need assistance, Mr. Molloy?”

“Apparently what I need right now is blood. I can feel your heartbeats. Leave.”

An intake of breath. The sound of rapid tapping.  

“Mr Molloy. Try to keep calm. There is refrigerated blood in the kitchen. There is a small chamber in their bedroom containing the same.”

“Okay, okay —  on it.” Daniel gets to his feet and staggers off towards the kitchen. 

“I will make Mr de Pointe du Lac aware.”

“You will not.” 

He’s made it to the kitchen, but his body is starting to cramp in earnest now. He lurches into tables and counters, ricocheting his way towards an industrial sized refrigerator on the far wall. 

“You should not be left alone like this.” 

“You listened in on the big fight, right? Thanks for the script, by the way; I guess you’re fired. This shambles right here is what Armand thinks will get him to come running — fuck the fucking fridge is locked?” He yanks the handle and the door comes clean off, crashing to the floor. The impact dislodges what Daniel vaguely recalls as Armand’s martini hostess trolley. It rolls away from the wall, coming to a slow stop beside him. 

He rips a blood bag open. As the smell of it floods his senses, his gums start to tingle and his fangs descend. He pours the whole thing into his mouth. Ah, shit. It feels amazing. He needs more. 

“Mr Molloy? Have you found the blood?”

Daniel tears through eight more bags, only stopping when the convulsions start in earnest. 

Rashid never gets a reply. 

Chapter Text

Three days later

“I told Real Rashid that you should stay away.” Daniel says, throwing Louis a baleful glance from the sofa where he’s set up home.  

"And Rashid,” says Louis, stepping over a cracked sculpture lying on its side, “despite his shortcomings made the correct decision and contacted me immediately. I apologize for the time it took me to get here.” 

“I’m doing great,” Daniel waves him off. “Once I got past the shitting and puking - sorry about the mess by the way - it was plain sailing.”

“Was it?”  

Mostly. 

After finding the blood bags in the kitchen, things had been kind of fucked. He remembered hauling himself and as much blood as he could load onto Armand’s stupid hostess trolley back to his room and into the enormous en suite wet room. 

The blood went in the sink, not easy while fighting the steadily increasing spasms that he assumed were human fluids preparing to exit his body. He got under the shower and learned very quickly why Louis hadn’t lingered on this part of the process. It was excruciating, and after he was certain he had no human body fluids left, he had passed out. 

He awoke to a steady stream of water over his head, his lower half still bloody, surrounded by his own waste. He might have been repulsed had he not been ravenous and freezing. The cold was bone-deep, the likes of which he had not felt before. He dragged himself to the sink to devour the blood but, not enough, hunger drove him back to the kitchen. 

It was only on his return that he noticed the apartment was almost completely wrecked. 

He guessed the crashes he had heard by the elevator were Armand absolutely destroying the place. Which seemed, well ... Daniel would have wanted to break something for sure if he’d been caught in the same sort of lies. Yet it seemed out of character considering what he knew of the vampire. He’d been angry in San Francisco, but this was something else. 

Daniel had looked around at the cracked plaster, upended furniture, the paintings hanging off the walls. The creaking bookshelves had come partly away from their fixtures and now hung vertically from ceiling to floor, books and papers spilling out below them. Daniel’s laptop was a mess of warped plastic and metal, thrown with enough force that it was embedded in the wall. 

It looked like uncontrolled rage. 

Except he’d left the film on the windows alone. Except he’d left Daniel’s room alone. 

Perhaps not as uncontrolled as he thought. 

There was no time to dwell on it. The hunger, barely sated in the kitchen, soon forced him out to hunt. He had no idea who his victims were. Several bodies and several amateurish body disposals later, he returned. The satiety that came with consuming the blood of a living human helped pull him away from operating solely on instinct, but as soon as he started to slow down, things started to catch up with him. 

Walking back through the the apartment his attention caught on the space where Armand had turned him: the concrete step stained brown with dried blood and the scatter of torn clothing. 

Without warning, he was overwhelmed by the undeniable evidence of what had happened to him.
 
He stood, staring at the step, then walked listlessly to the sofa and curled into a ball beside it. He remembered breaking down. Crying. Panicking. Sleeping. Waking to find his face wet and bloody. 

Daniel had no idea how much time passed before he started to get a grip on himself. 

Now what? he thought. 

He lay back on the floor and closed his eyes. 

“I’ve been through worse for less,” he partially lies to Louis, after delivering a highly edited version of his turning.

Louis looks furious. “That’s not how it happened,” he says. “I can hear your thoughts, you know.” 

“Well, fucking don’t. Or teach me how to block you.” 

“I’m going to kill him.” 

Daniel sighs. “Let’s be real: you can’t do that. And even if you could, he’s gone.” 

“And you want him to come back.” 

“Fucking stop that.” 

“Stop bullshitting me, then,” Louis says. “I can teach you how to close your mind. Honestly? I could have lived without some of the details. But first, we need to get out of here.” 

Once Louis is satisfied Daniel can travel, they go to New York.  

It’s early evening when they arrive. Daniel opens his coffin into the sort of apartment he’s only seen in magazine spreads. 

“I’ve arranged for your things to be brought over. You can use this place for now,” Louis says. “It’s safe: a number of windowless rooms, film on the rest, not that you’ll be able to bear the light for some time. Security. Waste disposal.” 

“Discreet, trustworthy staff?” 

Louis ignores that. “I think you’ll find it meets your needs. If you like it, I’ll offer you a fair price. Though I should warn you, it will eat up almost all of what I’ve paid you.” 

“Wi-Fi?”

“Yes, Wi-Fi.” Louis hands him a set of keys. “I’m sorry about your laptop. I don’t suppose the book will happen.” 

Daniel decides to sidestep that for the moment. Cloud aside, his mind feels so clear that he’s pretty sure he can recall every session and type it up verbatim. 

“So how do I keep you out of my head?” he asks. He’d expected the mind gift to come with ease, but so far he’s only been able to pick up the fuzzy edges of mortals’ thoughts. Enough to figure out whether he wanted to drain them or not, but nothing like the clarity Louis described. 

“We’ll get to it,” Louis says. “The first thing you need to learn is how to get rid of the bodies.” 

The next few weeks with Louis as his self-appointed mentor are less of a gentle introduction and more of a vampire boot camp than he’d have liked. Perhaps Louis wants to use this as a do-over for what he perceives as Lestat’s shortcomings but the longer it goes on, the more Daniel finds he is leaning towards Louis being more pedantic and annoying than he’d realized. While the continuing series of lectures on sewers this and dumpsters that, building regulations regarding incinerators, where the New York coven hangs out and who to avoid, are useful, Daniel is more interested in getting on with the business of enjoying the fuck out of his eternal life. At least, he supposes, Louis has taught him how to control his hunger to the point where he’s stopped killing people while he’s fucking them. 

Tonight, apparently, it’s a lecture on DNA evidence. 

“Am I boring you, Daniel?” Louis says. “Because I can assure you, the cops at your door will alleviate that boredom. Dubai is a completely different quantity to New York and —”

“— and if you got to the part where you teach me to compel them into getting the fuck away from me then there wouldn’t be an issue.” 

“You can’t always rely on that. One cop, maybe two. More than that? You wouldn’t have the strength.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Daniel snipes. It’s early evening and he hasn’t fed yet. The hunger, a grating, remorseless pull which feels uncomfortably close to the darkest days of addiction, only adds to his crankiness. And when he starts to feel like this Armand usually creeps back into this thoughts, turning him into a mopey fuck as well as a cranky one. 

Louis shoots him a sympathetic look and inclines his head towards the door. “Practical session?” he says. 

The thing is, Daniel thinks a few hours later when he and Louis are ignoring their cocktails in a roof-top bar in Tribeca, he’s pretty fucking good at being a vampire. Tedious theory sessions aside, he’s taken to it with no trouble at all. And when Louis finally pulls his finger out and teaches him the mind gift he imagines he’ll take to that easily too. If he’s overcompensating by trying to be the best fledging in existence because - if he’s being honest - he’s just a little bit sore that he’s fallout from a last ditch attempt to get Louis back, that’s no one’s business but his own. 

“And how are things with you?” Daniel asks. Three men move to the table to his left, doing nothing to disguise their interest in Louis. “Are you going to make up with Lestat?”

Louis shrugs. “That’s a complicated question - get that look off your face, you’re not getting another book - we’ll see.”

From what Daniel can piece together from Louis’ occasional comments, he is trying to adapt to life post-Armand too. He isn’t back with Lestat but as far as he can tell they are in and out of one another’s lives. 

“You want to focus on who you are as a single person. It’s a big change. I get it.” Daniel says. Unfortunately he’s loud enough that the air starts to buzz with interest and one of the guys next to them edges his chair closer. He’s wearing a dark grey silk shirt, unbuttoned to mid-chest, which annoys Daniel for absolutely no reason at all.  

“You’ve been single for years,” Louis points out. “Not that you’d notice given the revolving door to your bedroom these days.” 

He feels the attention of low-cut shirt guy shift from Louis to him and he chuckles. He’d never had trouble attracting attention, his confidence stemming in no small part from the incorrect belief that he’d managed to bag a ridiculously hot vampire when he was twenty. That confidence had seen him through to the most recent years of his life. And now, with the magnetism it seemed all their kind possessed. Well. Revolving door was right. 

Fuck, that older guy is hot. I wonder if he’d be down to—

Daniel tenses. He looks across the table to find Louis grinning at him. 

“You got that too?” Louis asks. 

“Loud and fucking clear.” 

“Try reaching in, see what else you find. See, I knew you could do it.” 

No thanks to you, Daniel thinks at him and winks at Louis' mock-offended expression. But he tries, reaching out for the shivering tendrils of desire he’d sensed, following them, and he’s in. And now he’s cataloging the numerous and highly specific ways shirt guy wants to be railed by him, he’s not sure he wants to be.  
 
“Fuck,” Daniel says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “How do you stop it?” 

Shirt guy ends up being a pretty decent fuck. 

Walking back at 4 am Daniel giggles to himself, still a little wasted on second-hand coke and martini blood. It’s a fucking blast being a vampire. He feels invincible. The eyes are a trip, especially now he’s getting used to the color shift. Sex: great. Speed: amazing. Brain function: off the scale. His Parkinson’s brain-fog had cleared almost immediately. 

Then there’s the not having to do stuff: no food shopping, no cooking, no eating, no frequent trips to the bathroom, no organizing life around doctor’s appointments, no medication schedules. Showering and dressing in minutes. Not being held back by all that shit is fucking great. He could probably knock the book out in a few weeks if he wasn’t so busy enjoying himself.   

Even the loneliness isn’t so bad. He doesn’t give a shit when he feels this good. Not really. Not yet. 

He wonders if it will come when Louis leaves. Daniel can sense his growing restlessness. And now he can do pretty much everything he needs to as a vampire, he doesn’t suppose there’s much of a reason for Louis to stay.

The price Louis wants for his apartment is fair considering it overlooks Central Park. It’s also over 4 million so Daniel less than politely declines and, after making some modifications to his place in Brooklyn, moves back in. 

“I’d stay longer, but things in Dubai are a mess,” Louis says by way of apology. They’re back at Daniel’s place, Louis having insisted on safety checking everything before he leaves. 

“No need, I’m good. Anyway, I know how to get hold of you,” he says tapping the side of his head. 

Just shout, Louis says. Then, out loud: “Seriously, any time.”  

Daniel gives him a lopsided smile and a hug before shoving him out of the door. He’s going to miss the old man support club they had going, but it’s time. 

Turns out that being alone hits slightly differently as a vampire. It never bothered him before. He’s assumed that with Louis gone, he’ll look up his friends if he’s lacking for company. And he does - at least those he can convince to stay out past nine-thirty - but the gulf between mortal and vampire is painfully obvious. 

In San Francisco he’d seen Louis and Armand as beings far removed from mortals. Alien almost. In Dubai, perhaps because Louis gave more of himself and Daniel was ready to ask the right questions, his view of vampires had shifted to seeing them as essentially human but with special powers. As it turns out he’d have been right to listen to stick to his first impression. 

He’s not the same, now. In moments when he isn’t quite so controlled by his desire for blood, he can understand why Louis mourned the loss of his humanity and Lestat pushed so hard for them to separate from it. He’s starting to comprehend that vampires are an entirely different species. So much of what made him human is just ... not there anymore, replaced by an overwhelming desire for blood. Sure, he can hang out with his friends as much as he likes, he can remind himself of why he likes them and what they have in common, but its getting harder to care about any of that when the uncomfortable truth is that first and foremost he sees them as sentient blood bags. Mostly, it’s easier to stay away.  

Daniel and Louis still speak telepathically and now the lessons have stopped Daniel finds himself growing more and more fond of him. The only topic they try to avoid is Armand which seems fair since he’s fucked them both over for different reasons. The only thing Louis does share before he leaves is that Armand has been impossible to contact. 

“I don’t know what the fuck he’s up to, but he doesn’t want to be found,” Louis says. “I did think, since this fiasco was aimed at attracting my attention, that he’d be open to returning. Then again, what would I know? He kept me in the dark about a lot of things.” 

Daniel doesn’t love being described as a fiasco, but since he isn’t the one whose boyfriend orchestrated the murder of his child, he lets it go.  

With nothing much else to do, he starts work on the book and fields periodic calls from the Talamasca. He doesn’t plan to seriously entertain them, but a couple of months pass with barely any company and he feels isolated enough to agree to a meeting. One meeting turns into two, then three. Then, because those weirdos have at least some sense of community about them, he accepts their assistance with getting his book to print. 

It turns out that even with the audio files saved to the cloud, Daniel could have gotten by without them. He can recall almost everything about the sessions: the words, the minutiae of body language, the smallest details of clothing, even the micro expressions on their faces. If he thinks about it hard enough he can almost taste the slightly different notes in every martini.  

Work, however, progresses slower than he’d anticipated and it’s nothing to do with his memory or the recordings or the material. The stumbling block is, unfortunately, Armand. 

Obviously no one likes being abandoned. That much had been clear from what Lestat had said about Magnus and likely explains many of his decisions and fuck-ups since. But Daniel thinks he’s getting on quite well, considering. He’s a realist, first and foremost. And, yeah, he would have preferred Armand to stick around and be his mentor, better still if they’d had some time to explore the moment that passed between them just before Armand looked at him like a piece of shit and fucked off, but clearly that’s not going to happen. No choice but to move on and stop thinking about it. 

Which would be fine if he could stop fucking thinking about it. But no. In one way or another, almost every part of Louis’ story involves Armand. 

Fake Rashid: Armand. Leader of the Paris coven: Armand. Theatre des Vampires: Armand. Lestat: Armand. Turning Madeleine: Armand. The Trial: Armand. The aftermath: Armand. San Francisco: Fucking Armand. On and on and on. 

It’s a Thursday night in September when Daniel slams his laptop shut. He only stops from throwing it through the window because then the sun will get in and he’ll be fucked. 

He knows his best work comes when he finds the sweet point between engaging with the story and keeping just enough distance. He’s also the kind of person to have numerous trains of thought rattling around his head at one time. He’d sat down earlier to clean up a section on Louis’ interactions with Left Bank culture only to start wondering how Armand came to know Sartre in the first place. Was intellectual sparring how he preferred to spend his leisure time or was he there to size up café society as food? Did this count as a hobby? Did Louis’ arrival serve as a lucky escape for the big European thinkers of the time? 

For fuck’s sake. Another sidetrack away from Louis, whose story it is, to Armand, whose story it definitely is not. Daniel likes even less how when his musings turn to Armand, they spiral into the personal: why the song and dance about not making another vampire? Why did he choose him, someone he actively dislikes? Why, if he’d lost his own maker in such an horrific manner, did he leave without a trace of remorse?

Daniel has always been comfortable relying on himself. He’s embraced a certain lack of constancy, moving from one thing to another as his curiosity dictated. From time to time he’s wondered what might have happened if he’d clung tighter to the more stable aspects of his life, but he’s explored that in books and articles, and while his regrets are significant and numerous they were never enough to keep him from the distraction of a new story. 

He’d fucking love a distraction right now.  

He considers calling a friend; he’s too angry right now to trust himself with an in-person meeting. He looks at the clock: two-thirty in the morning. It’s already light in Dubai so Louis isn’t an option. And what would he say to him anyway? Hey, how are things? I’m thinking about your ex again. 

Absolutely not. 

Growling in frustration, and feeling something between grief and nostalgia for who he used to be, he stalks around until he finds himself in front of the hallway storage closet. The last time he’d been in there it was to look for the old cassette player that started all of this off again. He pushes the door open and his eyes catch on a cardboard box piled high with junk. 

He picks up the pink, kids cycle helmet sitting on top of the pile. There are a lot of memories here, but there’s also a lot of stuff he’d kept precisely because he couldn’t remember. The sticker-covered helmet is a case in point: he'd put it there because he didn't even know which daughter it belonged to. He couldn't recall cycling with either of them and had long assumed he wasn’t the parent who’d done that. And as with much of the stuff in the closet, it had been tossed it in out of guilt and the hope that one day something might jog his memory. 

He turns it over and over in his hands and runs a nail under the edge of a glittery, mostly torn away sticker. He’s just about able to make out the bottom of a number. Four? Seven? Probably seven. He frowns. If it was a seventh birthday that would put it either December 10, 1993 or March 8, 1998. 

He shuts his eyes and tries to think back to the nineties, expecting the usual disappointing blur, then gasps as the memory of his older daughter’s party comes flooding back. The noise, Disney soundtrack at full volume fighting for it’s life against an excited rabble of seven-year-olds rampaging around the apartment. The overpowering smell of vanilla and strawberry. Katie's face scrunching up in delight as her friends sing and she rips the paper off gift after gift. 

Next, he picks up a roller skate and he’s transported back to the summer of 1997. His day to watch the kids so he’d bribed them with cash and promises they’d do something later and sent them to the park while he worked. Katie had grazed her knee and come home crying. Daniel made a big fuss of her as he patched her up. He’d taken them for ice cream afterwards: chocolate for him, some vivid blue concoction - supposedly bubblegum flavor - for the girls. He hadn’t got much work done that day. He remembers, now, that he hadn’t minded all that much.  

Rifling through to the bottom of the box, he finds a framed photo of him and Alice, grinning excitedly as they arrive at an awards party. He’d planned to propose again if he won. He’d won but he didn’t propose. He still has the small silver trophy sitting on his desk. Absently he rubs his empty ring finger.  

In his mind’s eye he can see the thin sheen of sweat and bubbling excitement on Alice’s face as the winners are announced. How the shallow stress lines that had begun to form around her mouth soften as she starts to believe this might be a turning point. Then, once the speeches were done, he remembers the smell of roses as he pulls her in to kiss her for way too long for that kind of event before sneaking off through a haze of smoke to the bathroom for a few lines of coke. 

After that point it seems there are still parts of his memory too fucked even for vampirism to elucidate. It’s just fragments: shot glasses slamming onto a wooden bar, acrid cigar smoke, snatches of conversation. The back of Alice’s head, her hair piled high and graceful, as she leaves without him. 

He doesn’t like a lot of what he’s uncovering but he’s transfixed by how vivid his recollections are. The colors, the sounds, the emotions. It’s as if he were there. Losing track of time completely he works his way through the box. When he’s done, he reaches up to the nearest shelf and pulls down a shoe box containing a stack of postcards held together by a rubber band. It’s only then that he feels the soporific pull of the sun: almost sunrise. 

He drops the shoe box and stumbles to his room.  

I don’t think this brain shit is normal, he says to Louis the next night. 

You’re going to have to give me more to go on than that.

I can remember things. It’s almost photographic. Before, I’d be lucky if I remembered my breakfast. But now, ask me what was going down when I was ten and I can tell you, down to the smallest detail.

Yeah? What did you have for breakfast on March 7, 2000?

Scotch. And a bagel from Dave’s Diner. I’d woken up in Montauk. They wouldn’t let me drink the scotch in there, so I had to sit out on the sidewalk in the fucking rain until Belinda came to get me.  Daniel pauses. Listen, is this an Armand thing or an all vampires thing? I’m guessing not all, because we both know you can’t remember shit.

Louis laughs. Your fucking rudeness aside, maybe? But I don’t exactly have a lot to go on. Seriously, you can remember everything?

Uh huh. Yeah. If I think about it, it’s just ... there. Okay, parts of the fuck-up years haven’t made it through, but it’s better than it was.

You’ll have to revise your memoir.

Daniel laughs. No shit. 

Louis is silent for a moment, then says: Lestat didn’t share much about himself that I didn’t drag out of him, so he’s not much help. Armand ... I guess he’d need a good memory to keep track of all the lies. He didn’t talk much about his life before.

If only we could ask him, huh? Daniel says. For all he knows, Armand has a shit memory and keeps track of everything on his iPad. It seems like something he would do. 

What about the bond?

With his maker’s mind silent it’s the only link they have, but its existence is largely theoretical. There had been an initial connection in the aftermath of his turning, he and Armand sprawled out in the wreckage of the apartment, but that brief spark had dimmed as soon as Armand had left.  

Despite that, the instinct to reach out is still there though he mostly resists it, knowing it will come to nothing. He’s less successful when he’s asleep. Often, in the kaleidoscopic landscape of his dreams he finds himself calling out to Armand. Searching for him. Sometimes, just before he wakes, it feels as if they’re next to each other but when he opens his eyes, frantic and desperate to hold onto that connection, he’s always met with silence. 

Nothing there, Daniel says. 

A few weeks later, Louis stops by after some legal meetings he has in Manhattan. Unpleasant meetings judging from the anger that is pouring off him. 

“Vampire divorce?” Daniel asks.

“We don’t call it that. And no.” 

“Want to talk about it?” 

“Nope.” 

“Want to go out on the balcony and smoke?” 

“Yep.” 

Daniel decides to let Louis silently fume. It’s getting towards the ten-minute mark and becoming a bit awkward when a door slams from inside the apartment accompanied by swearing, and a blond, stop-you-in-your-tracks-beautiful, man walks onto the balcony. 

“The fuck are you doing here?” Louis says. 

“And who the fuck is this? A new companion?” the man spits. “Hmm. We can only hope he isn’t as tedious as the last one.” The man sounds French and oh ... okay ... Daniel’s starting to get the picture. 

“Lestat?” he says. “I’m —-”

Lestat shrugs. “I don’t care. Get rid of this fledgling, Louis. We did not finish our earlier conversation.” 

“Hey, this is my place,” Daniel says, earning a hiss from Lestat. He backs away. 

“Get. Rid. Of. This. Fledgling. Louis.” 

“He’s Armand’s,” Louis says. “And no.” 

“What?” Lestat does a double take and Daniel hears him in his head: Daniel, is it? Armand’s fledgling. Isn’t this interesting —.   “Hang on — what do you mean, no?” 

“No,” Louis says, and walks back into the apartment. 

Daniel and Lestat follow and less than a minute later they are all inside, having gone from a near fight on the balcony to almost civilized on Daniel’s couches. Daniel is starting to feel some sympathy for Claudia because the whiplash from whatever the fuck is going on between these two is quite something. 

“So,” Lestat says, rolling the word out slowly, “you interviewed Louis as a mortal reporter and he asked you back again? Were you no good the first time?” 

“He was young, Lestat,” Louis says at the same time as Daniel answers: “Total moron.” 

Lestat laughs and tips his head towards Louis. “Good luck getting any sense out of this one. I am struggling.” His faces lights up as he sees Daniel’s record player and the pile of vinyl beside it. 

“Don’t you think it’s time you went?” Louis asks.  

“Hmm?” Lestat looks up from his perusal of Daniel’s record collection. He picks out The Velvet Underground and Nico and, smirking at Louis, drops the needle at Venus in Furs. Daniel feels a jolt of déjà vu. “No, I think I’ll stay. I’d love to hear how Armand’s only fledgling is getting on. Do you have any gifts yet, Daniel?” 

And against all prior expectations of the evening, Daniel finds himself talking about life as a vampire under Lestat’s uncomfortably intense scrutiny. 

“Yes, yes,” Lestat says impatiently. “All these things are normal. Well, mastering the little drink so early on is impressive, but Armand’s maker is immensely powerful, after all. This memory you have though; it is quite something. It might be that you are young enough not to have much to remember, but I can barely recall whole years of my life. And Louis’ recollections are, well—” 

“Yeah,” Daniel says quickly, hoping to avert another argument. “It’s not perfect, but I hadn’t realized I’d lost so much.” He chuckles. “My agent likes to bring up the time I disappeared for three days in the nineties. I’ve got plane tickets and bar receipts but we never got to the bottom of what I was doing. Except she calls me last week, brings it up again, and it’s as clear as day.”

“So if I asked you what you were doing on my birthday five years ago, you could tell me?” 

“You’d have to tell me your birthday. But sure.” 

“Louis can tell you that,” Lestat says and sweeps out of the room. 

“You're not sure, are you?” Daniel says, choosing to ignore the crashes coming from the kitchen. 

Louis has the decency to look embarrassed. “How about we go for February 10, 1988, midday?” 

Daniel frowns. “At my in-laws house, a few hours from here. I was sitting in their kitchen feeding my eldest mashed banana. I can remember it like yesterday. The banana went everywhere except her mouth. We weren’t invited back for a while after that.” 

Louis looks faintly disgusted. He narrows his eyes. “How about 2 am, March 18, 1990?” 

“Hmm.” Daniel thinks. “Boston. Got freaked out in my hotel and ended up walking for miles around the city.” He laughs. “Turns out I was walking around a crime scene -  hang on - that was the Isabella Gardner— ”

Louis smirks at him. “Interesting. What about the morning of July 15, 2008?”

“Sorrento with my second wife, back when we were getting on. We’d been on a huge cocktail bender the night before. Just before she dozed off on a sun lounger by the hotel pool she told me to keep her in the shade and keep applying the sunscreen.” Daniel grins ruefully. “I passed out next to her and did neither. We both woke up looking like lobsters.” 

Daniel is still chuckling at the memory when Lestat pops his head through the door, wiping blood from his mouth. 

“Can I play?” 

If Daniel had thought this would be quick, he was very much mistaken as Lestat proceeds to take his sweet time coming up with a date, then changes his mind, then again, and again. 

As he crawls slowly towards a decision, he moves closer and closer to couch where Daniel and Louis are sitting and wedges himself between them. Then he shifts sideways so he is lying with his head on Louis’ lap, legs sprawled over Daniel. Louis and Daniel exchange a look before Louis glances down at Lestat with helpless fondness and smooths his hair away from his face. 

“Okay, okay! I’m ready,” Lestat says, reaching up to trap Louis’ fingers in his hair. “What were you doing on February 7, 1978?”

Daniel pauses and smiles softly at the recollection. “I was in my old apartment, not far from here. Total shit hole, up six flights of stairs and fucking tiny. We’d pulled the couch away from the wall so we could watch the snow storm through the window. I was recovering from ‘flu. It was fucking freezing and we were running out of things to burn. Armand insisted he bundle me up in blankets and — ” 

He stops. Louis and Lestat are staring at him. 

“Armand?” Louis says. 

Daniel frowns. “Yeah ... Armand ... he was there. Armand was there? We’d just got out of bed — what the fuck.”

Lestat lifts himself onto one elbow, looks up at Louis and says with perfect bitchiness: “But Louis, weren’t you with Armand in 1978?” 

“Not for all of it, no.” 

“And you’re sure you’re remembering it correctly?”

“I know what I was doing in fucking 1978, Lestat.”

Daniel shifts Lestat off his legs and walks out onto the balcony in a daze. 

“Cher, whatever you were doing, it was clearly not Armand.” 

“I was with Armand?” says Daniel, dully. 

“So let me get this right,” Lestat says, some time later. “He chases you around for a few years. Then, for some incomprehensible reason you start sleeping with him—” 

“Hey!” Daniel and Louis say in tandem. 

“Fucking hypocrite,” Louis mutters loud enough for Lestat to shoot him a defiant look. 

“— then,” Lestat continues, “you break up, get back together, break up, get back together, on repeat until the mid-eighties when we assume he makes you forget all about him, and he crawls back to Louis, who he was with all along.”

“Just about covers it, yeah.” 

If Daniel hadn’t been in the middle of one the most extensive head-fucks of his life, he doubts he would feel great about that summary. As it stands, the initial flood of memories is so relentless and disjointed that it’s hard to make sense of much. He’s given them as much as he can: New Orleans, looking for Lestat and finding Armand, running, eventually stopping, fast-forward to one day when Armand just isn’t there. 

As for the part in the middle, he doesn’t know what to do with it. The memories that are filtering through are so utterly at odds with Daniel’s existing mental construct of who he and Armand are to one another that his brain is threatening to short circuit. All he’d managed was: “After a while we had a relationship. Of sorts.” 

Fuck. 

Up until about an hour ago, Armand was the ancient vampire who had tried to kill him in 1973 and turned him almost fifty years later. He was needlessly cruel and selfish, a moral vacuum even by vampire standards. And while Daniel isn’t naïve enough to think this revelation made any of those things less true, the memories that are resurfacing show another side to him. 

He remembers them laughing, he remembers the feeling of Armand’s fingers curling through his hair, the coolness of Armand’s hand lingering on the small of his back, their fingers linked together as they walked through narrow streets in Paris. He remembers he had wanted Armand more than anyone before. Probably since, he now realizes. He remembers how, after they had finally come together in Pompeii, Armand had been insatiable. Feral, almost. 

He remembers them screaming at each other. 

He remembers loving Armand so much he thought he would break apart from it. 

He remembers being so, so scared of losing him. 

“Daniel?” 

“Huh?” Daniel pulls himself back from what threatens to tip into a meltdown. “Uh. Sorry Louis. It’s just a lot, y’know? I had no idea about any of this. No idea.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I need to get my head around it.” 

It’s obvious that neither Lestat nor Louis have the slightest clue what to do and, not feeling like further interrogation, Daniel doesn’t try to stop them when they leave. 

“I’m here for a few more nights,” Louis says. “I’ll try to speak to him again. This is really fucked up.”

When he wakes, Daniel has a few moments’ peace before it starts again. 

Outside an inn in rural England, warmed by the flames of an inn as he watches it burn. 

Armand, transfixed and glowing in the fluorescent lights of Tokyo, laughing and turning in circles in a busy street. 

An opulent hotel room in Rome where Daniel had barely left their bed for three days. 

City and city and city, rarely seeing daylight in any of them. 

He needs this to stop before he loses his mind. 

He needs this to start making sense before he loses his mind. 

Forcing his skittering thoughts into some kind of order, he goes back to the start: October 31, 1973, when he’d gone to New Orleans and found a monster.  

He reaches for a notepad and pen and starts to write. 

Chapter Text

It takes a few days, during which Daniel does little other than write, feed and sleep, to work out an approximate time line formed from a combination of handwritten notes, passport stamps, and the voice notes he records when he takes himself out to walk off his shock and growing anger. He suspects that the only thing that is currently keeping him sane is the distance he’s gained from approaching his own life as an investigation. 

Old, forgotten passports and tickets pulled out from the back of a cabinet match up with recollections of compulsive travel. He fills notebook after notebook with memories of planes and cities and running, terrifying conversations and inducements to keep talking. He breaks into a cold sweat as he recalls the paralyzing terror of being caught. Blood heats his face and travels down the back of his neck as he remembers the times he offered himself as collateral when he’d failed to outrun this languid, alluring monster and been gently rebuffed. 

“No, Daniel. If I wanted you on your knees I would have put you there a long time ago.” The monster smiles and for a guilty second disappointment washes over Daniel. “I want you to run. I want to see where you go. I want to see what you do.”

Another time, Armand - Daniel notes in the margins that he is no longer thinking of him as the monster - catches up with him after he’s been arrested. Armand takes him from the cells into a taxi and to a hotel. 

“No, Daniel,” Armand says as Daniel comes out of the shower, still half-drunk, white toweling robe unbelted, and places his hand on the buttons of Armand’s soft cotton shirt. 

“C’mon man, you must want something. You got me off that charge. You brought me back here and fed me.” 

“You know what I want,” Armand says, pressing a tumbler of whiskey into Daniel’s hand. Then, with a note of surprise: “But I do enjoy your company as well as your antics.” 

And so it went on. He records it all in painstaking detail. 

Back when he was being chased around the globe, Daniel framed his interactions with Armand as a trade of sorts. If Armand wanted conversation, he would get it while Daniel sipped the whiskey Armand provided. If he wanted Daniel to explain some mundane aspect of the twentieth century, he'd better have some coke on him. If he fancied company strolling through the public gardens of whichever city Daniel landed in, Armand would pay for dinner. Never mind the warm sensation in his gut when Armand dissolves into laughter or how Daniel shivers when their fingers brush across a table or how Armand's absence feels increasingly jarring. Daniel is aware just as much now as he had been then that this was how people behave when they want each other. It's the heat behind Armand’s stare, the interest that he shows yet never acts upon, that keeps Daniel firmly categorizing this thing between them as a transaction. As part of their game. 

But it plays on his mind. 

Daniel can pinpoint, matched with the passport stamp marking his entry into Italy, when he stopped running. At least physically. 

Several months alone in the saturating summer heat and he has almost given up hope of seeing Armand again. It stings. It’s hard to sleep. To eat. He’s just about got the energy to score but his indifference to the men he lets fuck him in whatever manner they please serves only to highlight that his interest lies elsewhere.  

In Pompeii Armand reappears and lets Daniel fulfill what he is still telling himself is his side of the social contract. This time, sex in exchange for blood. 

Daniel doesn’t dwell on what Armand says while brushing away his tears. Instead he lets himself be seduced by wildfire eyes and extended fangs, quieted by careful fingers on his neck. Then, a kiss. A hushed “May I?” barely audible over Daniel’s desperate gasps and frantic nod. 

Armand pulls him close and bites deeply into the flesh of his neck. Daniel’s eyes slide closed, his body spasms with pain that is overtaken by the visceral thrill of knowing this pleases Armand. 

Floating on the high of Armand’s narcotizing moans, he’s pushed to his knees on the dusty stone floor. He scrabbles with more enthusiasm than elegance to get Armand’s jeans down and looks up, but where he expects impassive, imperious stillness, the air between them burns. Armand’s eyes are molten, his mouth hangs open, fangs dripping obscenely with Daniel’s blood. Fingers slide and twist into his hair and for a moment Daniel is confused until he realizes Armand is waiting for permission. 

“Yes,” he says. “Please.”  

In his apartment, Daniel squeezes his eyes closed as he recalls the steady push of Armand’s cock into his mouth, building quickly to a pace almost too relentless to handle, the sharp points of Armand's nails tearing tiny wounds into his scalp, holding him in place until, with a gasp of Daniel’s name, he comes. Then, blood from Armand’s open wrist flooding over his tongue mixing with the semen already there. 

He’s utterly unprepared for the taste, the consuming heat and desire that comes with it. He hears himself sob and presses forward, pushing against Armand’s leg desperate to relieve the pressure. He wants more. He wants everything. He covers Armand’s hand with his own to keep it in place, a wounded sound tearing from him when Armand eventually moves his wrist away and guides him up to standing. Armand bares his bloodstained fangs and pushes him against the fresco. He takes one pointed fingernail and runs it slowly up Daniel’s denim covered cock to the tip. Daniel groans and comes harder than he ever has before. 

Afterwards he lingers against the wall, sticky and uncomfortable, watching Armand pull up his jeans and smooth out his shirt with endearingly precise movements. Armand must feel his eyes on him because he looks up, a soft, thoughtful expression on his face. Daniel looks away, too raw to examine any of this outside of an understanding that the terms of their arrangement have changed. All he knows is that he’ll offer Armand anything he wants to have this again.  

Daniel scrawls Impressive mental gymnastics on a post-it and sticks it to the top of a page titled Italy. 

The afterglow doesn’t last long. Daniel falls silent as Armand walks him back to his hostel then leaves for wherever he spends the day. At dawn, he boards the train for Rome, fails to write in his journal and dozes for a few hours. When he wakes and instinctively reaches into his backpack for cigarettes he finds a note from Armand on heavy card with instructions and the address of a hotel in the Via Veneto. 

He tells himself he won’t go, but in the hotel, in the early hours of the morning, Armand appears and nothing else matters.

“Back for more?” He fucking hopes so.

Armand blinks at him, his eyes glowing orange. 

“You gonna bite me again?” Daniel goes for cocky indifference which, on reflection, probably comes off as pleading. “Do you want me to blow you?”  

Armand tilts his head and lets out an exasperated huff of breath. He kisses him and pushes him onto the bed.  

This time there are no drugs, there is no whiskey, no vampire blood. Just three days of tangled limbs and Armand fucking Daniel over and over again. When he finally tries to stand, his legs almost give out from under him. Armand revives him with olives and lemonade while pressing kisses to his neck and pushing cool fingers inside him until Daniel is ready to take him again. 

I was weary from blood loss, he had recorded in his journal as if the act of writing it would make it true. But it wasn’t, was it? Armand may have fucked him to within an inch of his life but he had not so much as nicked his skin.  

Blushing from time to time, Daniel fills notebook after notebook with their travels. Until Florida, at least, they had always come back to New York. His old place had been objectively terrible, but - Daniel presses his lips together to suppress a stab of emotion - it had been perfect for a while. He and Armand, away from the watchful eyes of the world. 

An entry stamp to Paris in 1981 marks the point when he realized he was no longer content with what he’d allowed himself with Armand. The public spaces where they stood side-by-side but rarely touched. The jarring contrast between that and the decadent thrill of anonymous hotel rooms, their mutual obsession growing in whatever filthy room he happened to surface. Secret spaces where he could be himself. Knowing he needed to keep it that way if he wanted a route back to a life with more conventional expectations. 

Paris had blown all that apart. It had been the beginning of the end. 

The time line ends abruptly in Chicago. Like the other times when he’d been using heavily, the memories are fragmented. There’s a bookshop, the blindingly white walls of a hospital room, sobbing, pleading apologies, the cold sanctuary of Armand’s embrace and his words of comfort: “I love you too much to let you go.” 

Then he had gone. 

Daniel rips that last page to shreds. 

If Daniel was hoping for a sense of peace after he got all this down he was to be sorely disappointed. 

What he gets is a shitty combination of rage, confusion and the specific flavor of heartbreak that comes when you don’t know what you’ve done wrong.

On top of that, he returns one night from his regular angry neighborhood walk and he gets Lestat de Lioncourt in his apartment looking through his books. 

“Find anything you like?” Daniel asks.

Lestat has taken several detective novels down from the shelves and is leafing through them. “Not really,” he replies, putting two books into his messenger bag. “Louis thought I should look in on you.”

Daniel gives him a skeptical stare. 

“He’s worried.” 

“I’m fine.” 

Lestat returns the skepticism. 

“Alright. I’m shit but I’ll be fine. The sudden interest is touching and all, but - what’s the saying? - this could have been an email. Or a mind thing. Give me a chance to get my head around it.”

“And you are doing this by —” Lestat looks around the apartment. Its chaos. Notebooks everywhere, screwed up paper all over the floor, drawers pulled out, blood bags and glasses stained brown and red, piled up on most available surfaces. Now he sees it, it reminds him of the mess Louis described the first time Claudia left. 

Oh. 

Daniel’s heard enough about making vampires too young or too old or too weak or too messed up to guess where this is coming from. Though, given these two, it gives him a cheap laugh that this is the time they choose to worry about a fledgling’s fragile psyche. 

“You think I’m having a breakdown? I’ll clean up.” 

“The mess is not what concerns me. Well.” Lestat tilts his head to the side. “It’s a worrying symptom. You need to break out of this cycle. Personally I would take Armand’s absence as a gift, but if the vampire bond is stopping you from moving on I can show you how to break it.” 

Daniel thinks he understands. From what he’s gathered, Lestat’s turning and his maker’s suicide had fucked him up. Then there was the boyfriend, Nicolas, who had died. 

“Nah. I hardly feel it,” Daniel shrugs. It’s true. It’s not the reason he’s reluctant to sever the only connection they have. 

Lestat drops it after that and spends another hour or so looking through Daniel’s books. Before he goes, he gives him a card with a contact number. 

“If I wanted to tell my story, is that something you would be interested in?” he asks. 

“Sure,” Daniel says. “Just let me get your ex’s book out of the way first.” 

While he’s fairly certain the purpose of Lestat’s visit was to execute the most awkward welfare check in the history of people giving a shit about each other, he admits that he’s intrigued by his offer. 

First things first though: he lets Louis know he’s alright. Sort of. Mostly. 

I wasn’t worried, Louis says in a tone that sets Daniel’s bullshit detector off. Must be a lot, is all.

No shit, Daniel says, dumping bloody glasses into the dishwasher. Now he’s had a while to process, he’s getting a handle on how his relationship with Armand had included the highest highs and lowest lows he’d experienced. The love is - had been - overwhelming. He’s not sure what to do with that when what he feels towards Armand now is mostly anger, but you can’t have everything. 

Listen, Daniel says. He switches the dishwasher on and starts to pick up the screwed up paper he’d thrown fucking everywhere. Do we need to talk about how this was going on behind your back?

Louis pauses for long enough for Daniel to start to worry. He spots a blood bag wedged behind a throw cushion. For fuck’s sake. 

Honestly? No, Louis says. You didn’t know. He lets out an irritated sigh. If Armand and I were still together? Yes, I would want to talk to him. We never hid that we fucked other people, but this is a big omission. Thing is, it doesn’t matter now. But you? — he lets the question hang.  

I’m fucking raging, Daniel says bluntly. He’s glad to get that out there, the anger having sat heavily on him for far too long. He could almost understand the disappearing act when he’d thought Armand barely knew him from a hole in the wall, but now? He’s struggling with it. 

You have questions, Louis says. 

I already had questions, Daniel says. I’ve got a fuck of a lot more. Problem is, the person I need to speak to isn’t here to answer them.

What about the Talamasca? Louis pronounces the word with considerable distaste. They like watching people; maybe they know something.

It’s a good shout from Louis, but Daniel quickly learns that the Talamasca always want more in return than they’re prepared to give and he’s already in discussions with them about giving up some editorial control in return for getting the book published. 

“You understand any archival search I undertake will be unsanctioned,” Raglan James says. He pokes at his fish and lets the implication hang in the air. 

“Thing is, I’m wondering why so little of Louis’ and Armand’s post-1973 activities were included in the files you gave me in Dubai.”

“Mr. Molloy,” James laughs. The patronizing fucker. “We both know you could not be less interested in what Mr. de Pointe du Lac was doing.”  

Daniel clenches his jaw. “What do you want?” he asks.  

"Are you fucking kidding me?” Daniel shouts into his phone ten days later. “Three grainy photos and a six-sentence report?”

“You asked for written and photographic surveillance of the vampire Armand from 1973 to 1985,” Raglan James says placidly. “This is what we have. It was at great personal risk that I included an additional image from outside the specified time frame.”

“And this is it?” Daniel had been aware, even as he had agreed to give them additional control, that desperation was driving him. But to do so when he had no guarantee he would be getting anything at all was incredibly stupid. He’s impulsive. He knows. 

He screws up the report and looks again at the black and white prints. The first two tell him nothing he doesn’t already know. The third tells him nothing. 

The first: Barcelona, December 8th, 1979. He and Armand at a Christmas market in the shadow of the cathedral. He’s smiling, his eyes fixed on Armand who is leaning down to get a closer look at a trinket that is partly obscured by the arm of a shopper. Shortly afterwards, Armand will turn and Daniel will become mesmerized by the glow of lantern light as it flickers across Armand’s hair and face, rendering him into an ethereal creature. Armand will smile and move towards him. Instinctively Daniel will step back. Armand will still his expression and continue as if nothing has happened.  

The next, Dublin, April 25th 1984, outside a city bar, the aftermath of an argument. He is walking away, middle finger raised. Armand stands, mouth open, one arm reaching out to him. Up until that point the evening had been perfect, a welcome respite from the near-constant rows. They had been in the crowd watching a traditional band, Daniel soft-limbed in the warm haze of his fourth Guinness, Armand cigarette in one hand, the other snaking around Daniel’s waist. Daniel had leaned back and brushed his lips against Armand’s neck, enjoying the gasp of delight his uncensored affection still elicited. Armand had frozen when he’d murmured something about wanting to see him take a victim. Daniel had pushed him away and left the bar. 

The last is dated June 18th, 1988. Armand is walking alone down a narrow street in Dresden, his hair poking out of a familiar knitted cap. 

“This is it,” James says. “If you have other areas of interest I’m willing to renegotiate.” 

“Get fucked,” Daniel says and ends the call. 

When Daniel’s book goes to print two years later, he likes to think he has largely gotten over Armand unless he thinks about him or anything to do with him.  

The interviews, consequent notoriety and inevitable book tour keep him busy. He’s still barely speaking to the Talamasca but, careful not to burn too many bridges, he hasn’t cut them off entirely. His friendship with Louis, who has finally read the book, is hanging by a thread. Lestat, on the other hand, while not in agreement with much of his portrayal, or a friend, really, has been popping up all over the place. Often to complain about Louis, sometimes to offer morsels of information on his origins, occasionally to offer insight into life as a vampire. 

The next time he appears is shortly after one of Daniel’s increasingly fraught conversations with Louis. 

He sweeps in with a bag full of LPs and the intent to dispense advice whether Daniel wants it or not. It takes almost no time to figure out this is another ruse to talk about Louis. Lestat looks a little wild around the eyes; they’ve probably been fighting again.  

“So,” Lestat says, thumbing his way through Daniel’s record collection. He picks out a couple.  “How have you been keeping?”

“Uh, you know.” 

“Good! If all is well, then perhaps you can tell me more about Dubai,” Lestat says. “Was Louis sleeping exclusively with Armand or were there others?” 

Daniel shrugs. “He made sure I knew he was with Armand. They both did I guess. I didn’t get the impression it was exclusive for either of them.”

Lestat’s eyes flash. “Armand sleeping around? Armand? When Louis was right there?”

Daniel doesn’t point out that one of Armand’s extracurricular relationships is standing in front of him, not to mention Lestat’s behavior throughout his and Louis’ relationship. 

“How should I know?” he says. “And even if I did, why would I tell you?”  

“Because I have advice for you. Important advice." Lestat makes an unnecessary circuit of the room. “I, too, was abandoned by my maker.”  

“And what advice is that? I can’t turn my mother, she died almost twenty years ago,” Daniel says, because quite frankly he’s feeling mean. 

“Well, you clearly know nothing,” Lestat sighs. He pulls several albums off the shelf and tucks them under his arm. “If my advice is so unwanted I will take my music and leave.” 

Lestat finds him again in Berlin.  

He’s had another fight with Louis. Worse than all the others from the way he’s bounding around with endless, near-manic energy, obviously at his wits end. He doesn’t even try to steal anything. 

Daniel knows better than to get involved in that. He’d got in the middle of Louis and Armand and look what happened. Not that he regrets the immortality, but right now he could do without the empty feeling that insinuates its way through him if he thinks about Armand for too long, not to mention the obligate relationship he now has with a part of his brain he’s spent the best part of ten years, and thousands on rehab, trying to switch off. 

And as if on cue, Lestat brings up Armand. 

“Because Louis won’t,” he says, by way of explanation. “I can tell you now Armand is not in Berlin.”

Great. There’s no point trying to keep anything from this guy.  

“I like Berlin,” he says, because he does like Berlin and it is absolutely beside the point that between book tour stops he’s taken to visiting places he’s been to with Armand.  

“Even I can tell you’re not doing well.” Lestat looks as if he’s about to launch into another round of advice. Daniel would put money on the word enduring putting in an appearance.  

“No offense, Lestat, but I’m good. He doesn’t want anything to do with me and he doesn’t need a reason why. Just — those memories — it would be good to know what the fuck was going on back then.” 

“Well,” Lestat says with the confidence of someone who has only a passing acquaintance with rejection. “I would want to know the reason why.” 

“Nah. I know what this is. I’ve been dumped and ignored before: they’ve moved on and you’re an open wound. You get through it; it’s not like there’s a choice.”  

And as the words leave his mouth he decides he’s had enough. 

What the fuck does he think he’s doing, chasing around after a vampire who couldn’t wait to get away from him?

It stops now. 

“What I need is something to do. I've got the book tour, but your story: I’d like to hear that.” 

Lestat smiles. “Good,” he says. “When you’re sure you’re done, come and find me.” 

A week later, Daniel shows up in his dressing room. 

Chapter Text

Armand walks out of the ruined apartment in a daze, half-dressed and covered in blood.  

Numbness is taking hold of him. It's a relief. It replaces the rage and diverts him from thinking about what’s happened. What he’s done. 

Barely noting the splintered glass and smeared blood on the back panel, he takes the elevator to the top of the building. He reaches the roof, walks to the edge and steps out into empty space. Lets himself hang in the warm night air for long enough that he starts to wonder what would happen if he let himself drop. Just to know how it feels, just to find out if the violent shattering of bone would be preferable to this curious, distanced feeling that he suspects might be shock. 

But he knows that while a fall from this height might create the distraction of near-unbearable pain, it would not last for nearly long enough. 

Instead he flies out to the desert, buries himself deep in the sand and screams.  

He begins to move more or less north-west. He’s grown so accustomed to the trappings of a luxurious life that it comes as a surprise at how easily he shakes it off. He does indulge himself in a shirt, removed from the body of a man he comes across somewhere in the mountains of northern Türkiye. The decomposition is such that it's hard to tell how he died. He buries the man as best he can. 

He continues his journey barefoot: one shoe was lost somewhere on his flight out to the desert, he doesn’t know about the other. He doesn’t feel the need to replace them. 

Time passes, but he's uncertain of the details of its passage. When he needs to sleep, he digs down into the ground. Other times he finds the places where the dead are buried and lies on the cool interior stone of mausoleums. The instinct to feed is getting stronger but the urge to seek out prey is not. His last memory of blood is ... not one he wants to think about. And the harder it gets to ignore the hunger, the less likely he is to think back to what happened in Dubai.

Some nights he wishes he had let himself fall, if only for the few days of peace the agony might have granted him.  

By the time he reaches Central Europe he is, by anyone’s standards, in a bad way. He has no idea what his own standards are anymore. What he does know is that he does poorly when he is without community or routine or rules. The last time he had been truly alone, in the period between Lestat destroying his coven and the founding of the Théâtre des Vampires, the sense of loss had been so great that he had not cared that it might end him. It seems too much to hope for now.   

He keeps to the shadows. When he catches sight of himself in a shop window in Aachen, the gaunt, filthy reflection confirms his suspicion that mortals would shrink from him. The care he used to take in his appearance - the importance of which was made clear to him in Venice, discarded in Rome, and adopted again sometime after Lestat arrived in Paris - has been lost again. 

For brief periods he allows himself to miss Louis. He can’t let himself consider that this separation might be permanent. When they had parted before it was always with the understanding that they would come back together: Armand granting Louis just enough freedom to believe he wasn’t a kept thing, Louis choosing to believe that lie in order to enact his revenge. 

Every time they did reunite, Louis having grown weary with the excitement that, for him at least, their companionship failed to provide, Armand did what he needed to do to keep things stable. 

Agony to think that Louis might look back on the time they spent together and conclude it meant nothing. Everything they did, everything they built and shared: it meant something. Hiding his instrumentality in Claudia’s and Madeleine’s death was no small thing, but was it everything? Is it unreasonable to hope that after seventy-seven years he might be spared a crumb of understanding? He had never claimed to value another’s interests above his own. He might have implied it a time or two, but really? Had he not said to Louis, in Paris, that he had not been able to rely on his love? Had Louis not witnessed the repercussions? Since then he’d taken steps. Tried to shape their relationship so there was no danger of a repeat. 

He still holds onto the hope that perhaps in time Louis will step away from his pain and understand. He catches himself imagining a time when Louis might look back on what they shared, the conversations they had, the familiar accord. Perhaps he will remember the quiet they cultivated between loneliness and chaos and he will understand its importance. He will miss it like Armand does.

And Armand misses it very much.

Other times, he hopes that his absence and the complication of Daniel Molloy will be sufficient for Louis to regret what he has done and come crawling back, begging for forgiveness. On the handful of occasions Armand checks back in, his mind gift subtle enough to find and watch Louis undetected, he sees that rather than recognise how miserable life is when Armand is not there to help him, he has continued to exist quite happily. Louis might have come to Daniel’s rescue, but he hadn’t needed Armand’s help or sought his return. Not that he would have responded until he was satisfied Louis had learned his lesson. 

Early days.

What is harder to bear is the miscalculation of bringing Louis closer to Lestat. He was not entirely surprised that Louis went running back to him, but he had expected him to quickly remember what Lestat was like and leave just as fast. The first time he reached out to discover that they were spending time together he shut his mind to Louis. 

But while Louis is no longer able to find him among the many, Lestat is strong enough to do so. And he has done nothing but repeatedly throw a mental image of he and Louis and Daniel at him. The last time, utterly sick of it, Armand threw back a word: seventy-seven. After that there has been silence. 

Armand fears that since then events will have spiraled even further from his control.

He wishes very badly that Marius was still here. Santino even, if only for someone to tell him what to do. 

He’s walking through a quiet, moonlit village a few miles outside of Galway when he picks a newspaper out of a bin and sees the date. It has been nearly two years since he left Dubai. He can count the times he’d fed on one hand. The hollow feeling from lack of blood grows daily and he welcomes it. The hunger, at least, is something he can rely on. 

Lately, he has been thinking more about Daniel. It adds to his sense of hopelessness that his fledging has been better than fine. Then there's the guilt. Not in his waking hours. Then, he couldn't care less. Then, he dulls the bond to the point where it might as well not exist. No need for it anyway: Daniel may be his first, and likely last, fledgling, but he is simply leverage. A risk that has yet to pay off. That will pay off. He doesn’t feel much of anything about Daniel, really. Until he sleeps. 

Awareness of the bond draws him back painfully to Marius. The connection they shared as vampires - a breath-thin thread that shimmered into existence after his master saved him from death - felt insubstantial compared to the ocean of feeling between them when he was mortal, but it was something only for them. It had set him apart from the others and Armand had treasured that. That it exists with another when Marius is gone is a reminder of loss that even centuries later is hard to bear. 

When he gives into sleep, the dreams are as unwanted as they are unavoidable. Variations on he and Daniel calling to each other, sometimes intertwined with the idle fantasies he’d had when Daniel was in Dubai. It’s the only time he feels Daniel, the only time he can’t deaden the sensation. And what he feels in the uncontrollable structure of his dreams is his fledgling's loneliness and confusion and, lately, anger. 

Armand supposes it's natural for Daniel, though rather unfortunate for him, to be drawn to his maker. But this is not the same situation as he and Marius. Or even Lestat and Louis where, he admits begrudgingly, there had been love. Nonetheless, he cannot shake the dreams. He supposes it might be a kind of vampire biological imperative. He wakes up often in a panic, feeling bereft, looking around for Daniel, convinced he should be with him and desolate that he is not. Nothing he can do but wait until the fog between sleep and wakefulness clears and he can give these unsettling thoughts no further attention.

There isn’t one thing in particular that draws him back to the world. Even before his wandering took him to where he is now in Ireland he had a sense that enough time has elapsed. The date on the newspaper had confirmed it, along with a hope that he might have edged a little closer to forgiveness. 

Before he crosses the Atlantic he sends an email to his lawyers instructing them to reach out to Louis and ascertain his wishes regarding their assets. He can’t see Louis letting his hard work go without a fight and, a fact that Armand is poised to exploit, a fight requires contact. 

After several days of silence he instructs his lawyers to entertain any terms Louis might propose, provided the details are discussed in person. Perhaps if he presents himself as reasonable Louis might bend and agree to talk. Surely he misses him just a little by now.  

He reaches Boston and has heard nothing. In a fit of anger he finds a mortal who has managed to evade justice for a spate of brutal murders fifteen years ago. He drains her and sets up in her apartment. 

It’s only when he puts one of Louis' properties up for sale that his iPad chimes to announce the first words from Louis in over two years:

Seriously? Two fucking years and it's another power play?

I am keeping my personal effects, the artworks and everything else I added to our portfolio. Do what you want with the rest. From this point forward any disputes are to be handled through our representatives. Do not contact me again.

LDPDL 

He stares at the message, wondering if Louis wants to know how bad a dispute can get and how Armand can absolutely make that a reality, when the voices of the many, usually a dull murmuring at the periphery of his consciousness, rise to a roar.

It appears that Daniel Molloy has published his book.

Suddenly his fledgling is everywhere. 

Armand is minded to ignore it. His priority is to figure out how to find something that will make Louis bite and re-open the lines of communication. From the perspective of the unimaginative being told to stay away looks hopeless, but from Armand’s perspective it’s a step forward. There’s potential. Louis may not want to be contacted but he is contactable. He can work with that. 

Furthermore, Louis has done nothing to hide his location so it's relatively simple to trace the message to New York. He takes a suite in a hotel in the Upper East Side. It’s exclusive, it’s peaceful and most importantly it's far enough away from Brooklyn. Unfortunately the peace lasts about as long as it takes him to walk out onto the balcony where he is confronted by a garish billboard campaign for Daniel Molloy’s book. 

If it isn't hard enough to ignore him when his face is plastered outside the hotel, there's the buzz that accompanies the book and the vampires it has enraged. Many want to go after Louis, though that doesn’t concern Armand much: if he’s in trouble he is welcome to ask for help. Armand allows himself a brief and, in his view, appropriately confident smirk: Louis can run to his maker if he wants but, well, Lestat's track record at keeping his companions safe speaks for itself. 

Daniel on the other hand ... it appears that there are rumours that Louis de Pointe du Lac’s biographer has been turned. There is talk of it among the vampires, but those who wish him harm are the ones who believe he’s a mortal and a far easier target than Louis. That, in turn, has prompted interminable discussions about the morality of doing so and predictably very little action. 

Interestingly, the place where this rumour seems to have originated, and is gaining most traction, is in the online activity of mortals who have read Daniel’s book.  

Interesting is too strong a word, Armand decides, as he completes his bi-nightly surveillance of press releases and interview clips. He checks a few online communities that are dedicated to theories about the journalist Daniel Molloy no longer being human. The proof, such as it is, is occasionally accurate. There are posts talking about catching glimpses of ‘mesmerising eyes’ from behind sunglasses. Armand suppresses a smile: his eyes were always quite something, but the colour they describe is entirely wrong. There's another post detailing every live interview appearance, along with timestamps, noting that they are always after dark. His pre-recorded interviews, another has discovered, run along the same lines. There have been bitter words exchanged between fans about whether this is coincidence or it means something.

Apparently Daniel Molloy also photographs well, or so it would seem from the sheer amount of images available. Some further probing on a night when he has little else to do leads him to a community of people who are strongly drawn to Daniel’s physical characteristics. Armand soon realises that the folder he has created to safeguard pleasing images he has found of his fledging and clips of him eviscerating obnoxious interviewers is quite redundant - and sparse - compared to the online repositories curated by others. Due to the creativity of a handful of mortals he can now browse image after image of Daniel’s forearms, his band t-shirt rotation, and every facial expression imaginable. It's helpful for monitoring purposes. 

The most curious thing he finds is the stories. 

It’s an early evening in October when he leaves the Met, having lost himself there for several hours in a room of early Florentine manuscripts, hoping for some quiet and comfort. As he reaches his hotel he switches his phone back on and it buzzes with notification after notification. One of the bloggers he follows has posted a blurry picture of three figures on a yacht in the moonlight somewhere off the coast of New England. They claim the barely distinguishable figures lounging comfortably on the deck are Daniel and - his lip curls - the rockstar Lestat, and an unnamed figure who they are claiming is Louis de Pointe du Lac. In the three hours since it was posted, the picture has generated considerable excitement and debate. It is blurry - yes - but unfortunately Armand can tell at a glance it is them. 

He feels his control wavering. The loneliness is excruciating. The sense of unfairness overwhelming. 

He saves the picture and is looking around his suite deciding what to set fire to first when another notification pops up with a link to stories that have sprung up with alarming speed, speculating on what happened on the yacht.

There is nothing in the world that could induce him to click that link. But later, in a moment of blood-deprived curiosity and possible memory loss - because he certainly can’t recall saving the link - he reads the first story. It's harder to blame hunger and the need for distraction for reading the second, then the next, or for the dual feelings of unease and desire these speculations awaken. 

He thinks, after a lengthy shower, maybe he should hunt.

As he dresses he notes how loosely his clothing hangs over his body. This has happened before, or so he’s been told. He has no memory of it, only Louis' recollections of a time when he had become withdrawn and almost entirely stopped feeding. It had affected Louis to the point that he brought it up whenever he suspected Armand might not be getting enough blood. Although he can't imagine he would ever be in real danger of starving, Armand had encouraged and very much enjoyed Louis' concern, and how gently he had been treated as a consequence. How Louis, if he deemed Armand had been too long without blood, would push him in the direction of a mortal who wanted death or deserved it.

It occurs to him that if Louis were to see him now, he might feel the same protective instinct. 

Perhaps he will forego the blood a little longer. 

There’s a book tour, because of course there is. 

Armand is not interested, which does not entirely explain why, one week later, he’s standing outside a bookshop on the outskirts of Queens, glaring a hole through an oversize poster of Daniel Molloy who is wearing what he hears a kid beside him describe as cunty sunglasses. 

He doesn’t feel quite real. The effort it had taken to shower and dress himself has sapped much of his energy, at least this is the reason he gives himself for why he reaches out, just for a second, to feels his and Daniel’s bond.  

From inside, Daniel’s head jerks up. He looks Armand’s way briefly before turning his attention to a red-haired woman clutching a copy of his book. He’s wearing the sunglasses. 

For the first time in over two years Armand feels the hollowness shift and settle into something more bearable. He waits until the signing is over and follows Daniel silently to the car park at the rear of the building. The diffuse light from the street lamps illuminate Daniel’s profile as he pauses to slip his sunglasses into the inside pocket of his jacket. 

Daniel turns to face him. 

“What do you want, Armand?” 

Daniel’s eyes morph from hazel to a glassy amber. It’s breathtaking. Armand takes a moment to drink in the exquisite lines and angles of his face, the swoop of his neck, the strength contained within his body. 

Even in Dubai Armand was not so entrenched in self-delusion that he denied Daniel’s appeal, but his attraction to mortals, much like his interactions with them, tends to be rare and short-lived. Daniel the vampire, on the other hand, is an entirely different quantity and Armand finds his interest is many times more acute now they’re face to face. 

He feels a graze of vulnerability as Daniel looks him up and down, unimpressed. No wonder: he’s starving, has been starving for weeks. Neglected himself to the point where not even luxury brand low-cut shirts, flatteringly tailored coats and high-end eyeliner can adequately conceal the damage. Perhaps if he angles himself more towards the shadows...

“Well?” Daniel says. 

Armand shrugs. “I was passing and -”

“What? Suddenly curious about how I’m doing?” 

“With the attention you’ve been drawing to yourself lately, it’s hard not to know that. I merely happened to be nearby.”

“It’s a bit late, don’t you think?”  

They stare at each other. Armand bites back any number of replies detailing how he was under no obligation to come at all. Daniel’s anger is palpable and he shrinks from it. But at odds with that, there’s a tentative, flickering warmth from their bond. 

“I’m here now. It’s pleasing to see you so well.” 

Daniel shakes his head. “As if I could give a fuck what you’re pleased about. What is this? A sudden attack of conscience? Should I get ready for apology number three?” 

Despite himself, Armand feels his lips curve into a smile. 

“You should not.” 

Armand kicks at some gravel by his feet and feels something bordering on nerves as Daniel laughs. 

“Big fucking surprise,” Daniel says. For a second Armand could swear he feels affection burrowing in from Daniel’s side of their bond. It’s an effort to stop himself from reaching out to it.  

“And how is Louis?” Armand asks. It’s a reasonable question. 

Daniel’s face changes from mild amusement to rage. “Are you fucking kidding me? After what you did you’re asking me about Louis? The balls on you. Fuck off and ask him yourself.” 

“What I did? I gave you what you wanted. You thanked me, if I recall correctly. I can’t help it if you didn’t like the execution.” 

Daniel is silent for a moment. 

“Are you for fucking real?” he says eventually. “Yeah, it’s all good with me. What I wasn’t expecting was to be knocked sideways by the memories of the fucking life we had together.” 

Armand rolls his eyes. “Putting the hyperbole aside for one second, a handful of days in San Francisco and Dubai is not a life.” 

“A handful of days? Don’t play dumb with me, you fucking asshole. I’m talking about the years you mind-wiped from me!” 

Armand frowns, trying to make sense of what Daniel has said. 

“What?” he says. “When?” 

“Are you shitting me? The seventies. The eighties. You chasing me round after San Francisco, Armand. Us. Together. Until we fought so much you dumped me. Ring any bells?” 

It does not, in fact, ring any bells. But if there was a universe in which he and Daniel had spent significant time together, the last part at least seems plausible.  

Nonetheless. 

“Impossible. During that time I was —-” A wave of lightheadedness comes over him and his awareness of their bond creeps back. It’s limited - he remembers there being barely anything with Marius - but he feels sincerity, can tell that Daniel believes he’s telling the truth. As to why he would believe this, Armand is uncertain. He recalls how open and vulnerable Daniel made himself after he’d turned him and wonders if he’s chasing that. His face softens as he remembers Daniel’s fingers interlacing with his. He allows himself to meet Daniel’s keen, intelligent gaze for a moment and finds it hard to drag his eyes away. 

Daniel pounces immediately. “Remembered something, have you?” 

“I’m remembering your propensity for diverting the narrative for your own ends. This tale you’re spinning now is nothing more than wish-fulfilment. What do they call it? Self-insert fan fiction? It never happened.” 

Daniels eyes flash. “That’s rich considering your meet-cute with Lestat that didn’t ha — 

“—It very much did happ—”

“— not the way you told it—-”

“—I can assure you that— ”

“Hey, hey,” Daniel says. “Let me stop you before this gets embarrassing. I’ve actually spoken to Lestat and his account of you in Paris was very different to the Dubai bodice-ripper version. You’re a liar, Armand. You lied to Louis. You lied about Lestat. You’re lying about me and you.” 

“Hmm,” Armand smiles thinly. “Am I? How convenient for you that you believe that.” 

“I should kick your fucking ass.” 

“Good luck,” Armand says evenly. “But before you try, I should I remind you that I am five hundred —-”

“Yeah, yeah. Five hundred years old and spineless. And I’m mad enough at you not to give a shit that you could burn me up with a single thought. Fucking try me.” 

“I will do no such thing. The only reason I came anywhere near this spectacle was idle curiosity. You have never been part of my life. You are not part of my life now.” 

“And how’s life treating you?” Daniel asks. “Louis back yet? No? Thought not.”  

“How’s life treating you?” Armand snaps. “Do you enjoy being delusional? Perhaps Dr. Bhansali knows of a facility that could help.” 

“And this here is exactly why Louis didn’t share his hallucinations of his ex with his rebound! Fucking delusional.”

“I’m telling you the truth!” Armand raises his voice and the glass of a nearby window rattles in its frame. Rebound has much the same sting it did the first time. 

“And because I’ve met you, you’ll excuse me if I take your truth with a pinch of salt.” 

“What do you mean by that?” 

“What do I mean? I mean that even when you tell the truth, even if it’s about the most heart-breaking shit that’s happened to you, you weaponize it to manipulate everyone around you!”

Armand feels his face go slack. The glass in the window frame shatters. 

“A fascinating insight,” he says. “More prize-winning journalism?”  

“More bullshit? Seems to me that even if you do admit you’re fucking lying, whatever version of the truth you spew out is so warped it’s not worth the effort of hearing it.” 

“Don’t think you’ll get any arguments from me,” Armand says. “This conversation is over.” 

“This conversation should never have started. Go fuck yourself!” Daniel shouts and climbs onto his bike. “And eat something,” he yells over the sound of the revving engine. “You look sick.”

Chapter Text

Daniel is still shaking by the time he reaches his apartment.

What a disaster. 

Why the fuck is Armand lying? The cat’s out of the bag now. It's pointless. As for the possibility he's telling the truth? Well, his confusion looked genuine, he’ll give him that. It felt genuine. And that might be enough if you didn't know the Vampire and Former Theater Director Armand. But Daniel watched him sit there for the best part of two weeks with his big, earnest eyes and calmly lie to Louis’ face. He knows better than to fall for that.

And when Daniel had called him out on his bullshitting ways? Yeah, what he said went way over the line, but Armand can still fuck all the way off. 

On top of it all, he had the cheek to look so disturbingly unwell that Daniel actually gave a shit. 

That fucker. 

Daniel slams the door almost off its hinges and punches most of the way through the wall.

Cradling his knuckles because he’s strong but not that strong he flings himself onto the couch.

What really gets to him is that there was a moment when he was sure he caught a glimpse of the vampire he’d known in the past. He can't stop turning that over and over in his mind. For a split second it felt like they were the only two people in the world. He really thought that Armand was going to back down and talk to him.

It breaks him a little bit, that moment. How badly he misjudged it. 

What an idiot.

Daniel groans, drops his head into his hands and stays there until he's disturbed by a scuffling from somewhere in the apartment.

"Christ, not now," he mutters and reluctantly drags himself up to investigate. He reaches the kitchen and finds two youngish vampires waiting for him. It's not the first time. 

"Let me guess," he says. "You didn't like the book?" 

He bares his fangs and, taking advantage of the fact that they had - up until very recently - thought he was mortal, dispatches them efficiently. He surprises himself with how easy it is. Maybe he should have thrown a few punches at Armand while he had the chance. 

When he goes out later to torch the bodies he feels a familiar presence watching him. For a moment he feels a familiar connection, the slow, intimate pulse of twin heartbeats. It fades back almost as soon as he starts to reach out. 

“Hey, Armand," he calls into the dark. "That you creeping around back there?” 

Nothing. 

“Did you get something to eat yet?” Fuck's sake, shut up with the concern. “Come on, you might as well show yourself. This is Paris-level stalking.” 

Still nothing.  

“I just violated one of the Great Laws. Forget which one. Wanna take me to task about it?”

A thought niggles at his conscience. Daniel grinds his teeth. 

“Listen, uh, what I said earlier. About what you do with the truth. I mean, yeah, you do that. But what I said about what happened to you. It was shitty and — well, honestly I said it to hurt you. So. Sorry.”

There's silence, then footsteps walking away. 

Alright, he thinks. Making a sound was a deliberate choice.

Daniel stares into the darkness and doesn’t return to his apartment until long after the sound of footsteps fades away.

The next evening he wakes up expecting to feel angry, but instead he feels kind of...flat.

Although he’d been pretending to himself and his - maybe - two friends that he couldn’t care less if he ever saw Armand again, the truth is he’d been putting a lot of expectation on how a meeting might go. 

Now he’s not sure of his next move, if he even has one. He has no idea if he'll see Armand again. Given the level of contempt Armand showed him, he's not sure he wants to. 

It's also bothering him that while Armand is clearly lying his ass off, other than his memories Daniel has very little in the way of proof. As a journalist he wouldn’t take his word for it either. In fact, had their roles been reversed he might be the one claiming Armand was talking shit. Sure, he has the photos, but they're from the Talamasca so he imagines Armand would have some skepticism about those. Far too easy to insist images have been faked or doctored these days. And it's fair: they make themselves out to be neutral, but the Talamasca are a bigger bunch of bullshitters even than Armand. 

As well as all that, he needs something undeniable for his own peace of mind, regardless of whether he sees Armand again. Though if he does show up with his stupidly attractive face and big eyes, Daniel wants something concrete to wave in that face just before he tells him to fuck off again. 

Yes. That’s exactly what he’s going to do. 

He's been through an enormous amount of his old crap with his trip down memory lane, but he’s also a committed hoarder so scouring through the remainder of his stuff takes a while before he comes up with one, maybe two, items of interest.

One is a bill from the late 1980's for a post office box in Fishkill, around the time he lived there with his ex-wife. It's tucked into a wedge of paperwork from around that time and is remarkable only in that it sets off no memories at all. He never rented a PO box there, though it's possible Alice rented it in his name. She handled most of the bills anyway. He categorises it as possibly suspicious, possibly nothing, and puts it to one side.

Next, there’s the bundled up stack of postcards he'd started looking through a couple of years back, then discarded. They're nothing exciting: from friends, daughters before they stopped speaking to him, a few from family. He goes to put the rubber band around them again when he notices one that looks unusually thick. It appears to be three postcards stuck together. Carefully he peels them apart to reveal the card in the middle, crumpled and water-stained. It's from Florida with a stamp from 1983. The handwriting, in deep red ink, is unmistakable.

Fucking gotcha. 

His triumph is about as long-lived as it takes to remember he can't shove it in Armand's face. He supposes he could go to Fishkill and check out the post office box, but if it's connected to Alice that's a can of worms he's not opening unless he really has to.

In any case he can’t dwell on it for long. In the next hour he's due at a studio in Astoria to continue his sporadic meetings with Lestat, who is in the middle of tour rehearsals. He arrives mid-session and is shown to a room that appears to be half office, half equipment dumping ground, where he sits with growing impatience waiting for the band to finish up and Lestat to do whatever the fuck he does with the groupies.

"Your eyeliner's wonky," Daniel says when Lestat saunters in, covered in blood and uneven patches of body glitter. 

"And your t-shirt is falling apart," Lestat retorts. "Authenticity is one thing, but this barely passes for clothing." He rubs his hands over his eyes, dislodging more eyeliner, before jumping up to sit on top of a huge monitor. He sighs heavily. “I thought writing the songs would be cathartic, you know?”  

Daniel does know, but tonight he wanted to talk to Lestat about running away to Paris. 

“Obviously it’s the band who need the practice. I have no need for it, but they insist I attend." Lestat jumps down. He takes a seat alongside Daniel and starts cutting up lines of coke. "I'm living through it again. The same words, every night.”

Daniel hasn't given much thought to the content of the songs. To be honest, he'd assumed it was one long break-up album that had not, so far, had the intended effect. 

"How do you think you're going to cope with a tour?" he asks. "Isn't that more of the same? More of more of the same. The crowd's going to be excited. Emotional."

They'll eat you alive, he thinks.  

"If they do, at least the attention will be on me," Lestat mutters. He does a line of coke then says brightly: "And I’m sure by then I’ll be over it. No choice. Isn't that what you said?"

"It is. I'm more concerned you're using my words as advice." 

"Why not?" Lestat says. "You were married twice. At least two people loved you."

Daniel considers that. He likes to think they did. 

"And there's Armand," Lestat says, a mischievous look playing across his face. 

"I’m not sure that counts since he can’t remember fucking any of it," Daniel says. "Least that's his story." 

Lestat's mouth drops open. "You’ve seen him?" he says. 

"Uh huh. Showed up at a signing last night. I don’t think he’ll be back."

"Hmm." Lestat back looks up from the table, wiping his nose. "Is this when you try to convince me you’re absolutely fine with that?"

Perhaps because he's never had much reason to hide who he is from Lestat, or perhaps because he's on the way to ingesting enough cocaine to kill a horse and maybe incapacitate a vampire, he finds himself saying: "Honestly? No. If anything I'm embarrassed that I’ve been telling you and Louis that I don't give a shit.”

Lestat dissolves into laughter but it doesn't feel mocking, just true. Daniel gives him a wry smile. “Convincing no one, huh?”

Lestat claps him on the back. "A necessary lie you needed to tell yourself. We’ve all done it. We all build our walls." 

"And when we find out they're paper fucking thin, then what?"

"If I knew the answer to that then -" Lestat trails off abruptly. Briefly, Daniel catches a glimpse of someone weary and haunted. He's probably not getting anything about Paris tonight. 

"You know," Lestat says a while later, eyes red rimmed and unfocused. "I really thought things were getting better. He and I were making plans to go to New Orleans. Then I mention Paul and bam! He walks out."

Daniel is going to take a wild guess that there is more to it than that. He'd ask but right now he's having difficulty stringing a coherent sentence together. He tries to focus on Lestat but he feels his eyes sliding closed. 

When he comes to, Lestat is gone. 

A couple of weeks later, Daniel is in the middle of a live television nightmare. 

"So, Daniel,” says Jenny the co-host. “As well as vampires, martinis feature heavily in your book. Care to explain?” 

The audience whoop and Daniel laughs along with them. Live at 8, a popular evening lifestyle show, is the current stop on his promo tour. It’s also a booking fuck up, his agent jumping at the evening filming slot but checking absolutely nothing else. Daniel is seriously considering eating him as he's been shoved into the food and drink spot, sandwiched between a high-street fashion parade and an item on budget-friendly facial serums. 

It's clear no one has the slightest interest in the book, Instead, his detailed descriptions of the bewildering array of dishes he was served in Dubai have come back to bite him on the ass, several having been recreated by resident Celebrity Chef for he and co-hosts, Jenny and Alyssa, to sample. 

“I wouldn’t say heavily; they’re mentioned once or twice,” Daniel grins gamely, barely holding back the urge to vomit as he forces down the last dusty fragments of meringue. 

“Twelve times,” Jenny waggles her eyebrows and the audience whoop again dutifully. "Some dedication, huh Daniel?"  

“Okay, maybe more than once or twice," he concedes. 

The camera goes to Jenny. Daniel spits his meringue into a tissue. 

Jenny flashes the camera a hammy, conspiratorial smile. "What Daniel Molloy doesn’t know is that my co-host Alyssa makes a mean martini, so to celebrate your dedication to the cocktail we’ve brought in Marco from Dukes to go head-to-head with Alyssa for the next segment — Martini Meltdown!"

The audience cheer. For fuck's sake.

As Daniel sips a martini that tastes of dirt, he feels his insides heave and he prays for the sun to take him. 

“So,” Jenny says. She's four martinis in, having necked a couple of extras during the close-ups of Alyssa's and Marco's competitive mixing. Her eyes are glassy enough to rival Daniel's and she's so unsteady he needs to grab her arm on their way back to the couch. He's kind of warming to Jenny. "The Martini Master prize goes to..." there's a drum roll, "Marco! Well done Marco - better luck next time, Alyssa." Jenny turns to Daniel and hands him a ribbon to pin on Marco. "But what I really want to know is if are these better than the ones the vampires made?” 

Daniel has pretty reached his limit for banal chit-chat, but the reminder of vampire who mixed several of the cocktails in question is what finally tips him over the edge.  

"Y'know Jenny, the vampire martinis don't even come close to these." Daniel doubts evening magazine shows are Armand's thing, but at the very least he's going to get a kick out of a rewatch. He looks at the camera and grins. “I think, really, with the vampires - I'm thinking about one in particular - it was a skill issue. The guys you’ve got here are amazing. You’ve really got something special.” He toasts the camera. He's laying it on a bit thick, but fuck it. 

He feels a flash of anger through their bond and ignores it. Fucking coward can come and say it to his face. He looks to camera again, smirks and says, "These really are hands down the best I've ever had. No contest." There. That’ll fucking show him. 

Later, when he pops into Jenny’s dressing room to say goodbye, he decides to get his money’s worth out of a bad situation. Her blood tastes deliciously alcoholic with a trace of whatever benzos she's been taking. When he's sure she’s resting comfortably on her couch, he covers her with a blanket and pours a fresh glass of water. Fairly certain she’ll assume she's passed out from alcohol, Daniel heads somewhat unsteadily out of the studio. 

Armand switches off the television despite the protests of his current bed partner. His fingers are clenching and unclenching uncontrollably.

How dare he? 

Not counting the steady stream of notifications he receives from his online sources, it has been several weeks since he last saw Daniel. Their meeting at the bookstore isn't something he wants to think about, but the disdainful way Daniel had looked at him has pushed him to take a little more care of himself.

After Daniel had gone, he walked around aimlessly, utterly confused by the conversation they'd had. After a while he'd crossed paths with a man who was on his way to his mother’s house to rob her. He drained him. The blood tasted of nothing. 

In the time since, Armand has fed just enough to restore some plumpness to his cheeks. Enough to remember that he enjoys the interest he attracts. The touch of mortals isn't the same as that of vampires but he finds he’s missed physical contact of any kind. Moving from bed to bed is a welcome distraction and a timely reminder that even if he isn’t wanted by those he loves, it is a pleasant thing to find desire and adoration in the eyes of those he doesn’t. 

”Aw c’mon, I fucking love this guy,” the woman says, grabbing at the remote. Armand holds it out of her reach, playing it off as a game. “It's Daniel Molloy. You know him? He wrote the vampire book? He's hot.” 

"I'm aware," Armand says, in answer to everything.

"Knows about cocktails, too. Geez, marry me now, Daniel Molloy."

Armand suppresses the urge to growl. This is absolutely unacceptable. He looks around for his clothes and slips them on quickly.  

"You heading out, babe?" the woman asks.

He blows her a kiss and tosses her the remote. 

In the time it takes Daniel to return from the studio the weather has turned and Armand, who is waiting for him on the steps leading up to his apartment, is covered in a thin layer of snow.

Having already dressed carefully to secure a partner for the night he knows he looks, by any stretch of the imagination, captivating. Off-white trousers tailored to flow around his legs and a delicate vest top in grey, knitted silk. He’d added an oversize wrap with an abstract pattern of lilacs and oranges more as a challenge than a nod to the icy December weather. 

“I thought I told you to fuck off,” Daniel says. A little unsteady on his feet, he looks up at the sky, snowflakes catching on his eyelashes. Armand tries not to feel charmed as Daniel looks delightedly at the snow falling. He turns to peer at Armand. “But it’s freezing. I suppose you better come in.” 

Armand nods and follows Daniel up. 

“You look better,” Daniel says, taking the couch while Armand perches on an armchair. “What do you want?” 

“What possessed you to go on that vulgar show?” 

Daniel shrugs. “It was time to tell the real story: you can’t make a martini for shit.” 

"I beg your pardon. My cocktail making skills are second to none. You, yourself, said you preferred-"

"Aww. You believed that?" He flashes him a sarcastic smile. "I was humoring you." 

“I doubt it. And I simply don’t believe that the skills of this Marco are superior to mine.”

"Simply choose not to believe a lot of things, don't you?" 

"In this case, yes." 

"Well for one, you're way too heavy-handed with the Vermouth." 

"I am not! The proportions were perfect." 

"You didn't even get the olives right," Daniel laughs, then: "Why are your eyes are shaking, Armand? Did I touch a nerve?" 

"The olives, like the rest of the drink, were flawless," Armand says. He stands, Daniel following suit, so they face each other in the middle of the room. "Why do you persist with these lies, Daniel? As if the book were not bad enough, you use this asinine show for your slanderous attempt to attract my attention!"

“You absolute idiot." Daniel takes a step forward and pokes him in the chest with his finger. "It's not about the cocktails. Obviously it's not. Obviously I'm fucking furious with you!" 

"So you agree? The cocktails were good?" 

Daniel glares at him, his eyes a molten orange. "Fuck off, you ridiculous vampire," he yells and marches out of the room. There is a muffled sound from the next room. Armand sneaks his head through the doorway and sees Daniel on his bed, screaming into a pillow. He ducks out of the way as Daniel walks back in. 

"Firstly, shut up about the cocktails," Daniel says, but his exasperation is infused with a resigned sort of affection. "Secondly, we need to talk about this. Come on," he gestures back at the sofa. 

Armand feels himself softening. Despite Daniel not being his problem, it's hard not to feel concern when he is in so much turmoil. 

"I'm not sure what you want from me," he says, once they're seated again. "You can't blame me for something I can’t recall. Blame me for the rest of it, but not this." 

"I don't understand. We spent years together. There's so much, and for you there's just...nothing?" 

“I don’t know what to tell you. I’m not lying. Why would I?” 

Daniel shrugs. “Uh. Maybe because it’s embarrassing? Don’t think I missed how superior you act to mortals. Imagine having to admit to an affair with one.” 

“Oh yes. A terrible hardship. In the time frame you mention you were incredibly attractive.” You are now, he thinks, but he’s petty enough not to admit it. “You have a sharp mind. I imagine you know how to have fun.” He doesn’t mean to smile. “I think I would have enjoyed having fun, if it were something that actually happened.” 

Daniel makes an exasperated sound but he's suppressing a smile too. “Enough sweet talk, demon boy," he says. "I’ve got something for you.” 

Not giving Armand time to object to demon boy, Daniel goes to grab a small pile of papers from his cluttered desk and waves some photos at him. 

I'll bite, Armand thinks, walking over. He looks at the first couple and starts to blink rapidly, in danger of losing his composure.

"What is this?" he asks. Before Dubai he'd met Daniel once. He'd never been to these places, let alone with Daniel. 

"These are from the Talamasca," Daniel says. "What do you think?" 

“I think," Armand says, scrambling for any sort of a response before panic sets in, "this is not the big reveal you thinks it is. This,” He waves one of them at Daniel, “could have taken anywhere.”

Daniel rolls his eyes. “It’s clearly Temple Bar.” 

“If you say so,” Armand replies. “The fact remains that I don’t know what these are: I have never been to Dublin. I have not been to Spain in over two hundred years." He examines the third picture. "Dresden though, I can remember. I hate to point out the obvious, but there's no evidence of you here.” 

Daniel waves a postcard at him. "What about this?" he says. "This isn't Talamasca. It's mine." 

"It means nothing," Armand says, taking the postcard and holding it carefully by its edges. He's never seen it before. 

“Yeah, and I guess the annotations on the trial script didn’t mean anything either. I’ve seen your handwriting. You were still using red fucking ink.”

“I cannot explain it,” Armand says. 

“So what happened? Because something clearly fucking did. If you can't remember - and I'm not saying I believe you - why can’t you remember?" Daniel's voice cracks, shifting from confrontational to hurt. "Was our time together so awful that you removed my memories and then thought: fuck it, might as well do mine too?” 

“I don’t know!”

“Can you even do that?” Daniel asks. 

“No!”

“You mind-fucked an entire café. Twice. What’s the difference?”

“I can't. Not to myself. I wouldn’t know how to try.”

“Explain it then! Fucking explain it. Is there another vampire out there who can do this? Should I ask Lestat? He mind-fucked everyone at that trial while you sat back and played victim.” 

Utterly bewildered, Armand feels his control snap. Before he can pull it back he has Daniel slammed against a wall, his claws digging into his throat. 

"Do not mention the trial again." he says. 

"Okay, okay, got it," Daniel chokes out, his body going limp. With Daniel pressed to the wall, trembling, he uses his other hand to thumb the tip of Daniel's chin, stroking up to the angle of his jaw, lingering there when Daniel presses his eyes shut and leans fractionally into the touch.  

"Hmm," he says, pulling his fingertips out of Daniel’s neck with a sickening, sucking sound. "Perhaps I have been remiss, leaving you to the care of," he privately winces at the names, "Louis and Lestat. Maybe," he muses, sliding his fingers slowly in and out of the wounds, "some appropriate instruction is what you need." 

Daniel opens his eyes. "Sure, boss," he gasps and Armand flinches. 

As they stare at one another, Armand is painfully aware of how close he is to Daniel's face, their lips almost brushing. He feels warmth spread up his neck and suffuse his face. His heartbeat, usually deathly slow, starts to pick up and he lets himself feel the rhythm of Daniel's heart, each beat intertwining with his. 

"Good," Armand says.

Chapter Text

This had better be important.

Opening his mind to Louis is very much a last resort, but given what he's just read, Armand doesn’t know where else to turn. 

Louis sounds beyond exasperated. On some distant level Armand hears it, but it's overshadowed by his response to a voice he hasn’t heard in over two years. He clenches his jaw and frowns, trying to bring emotions he hadn’t anticipated back under control.  

Your lawyers have made a mistake. Most of the properties listed as mine have nothing to do with me, Armand says. He is relieved to hear his voice, at least, is steady. The less said about his hands, his fingers knitting and unknitting, the better.  

Not important, then. Stupid of me to think this might be about your responsibilities.

You mean Daniel.

Of course I fucking mean Daniel. Remember him? Your fledgling, Daniel?

Armand thinks: I didn't see you checking in on Madeleine. He digs his nails into his palms with the effort of keeping that to himself. He's not here to discuss Louis' poor decisions, or his. 

I know you're playing games, Louis continues. What I’m wondering is exactly what fucked up kind of game it is this time.

It is not a game.

Right. What is it then? An attempt to create an argument out of nothing? Did you think that if we fought it might draw us back together like old times? Louis' laugh is a horrible, mirthless sound.

While it's true he didn't contact Louis with the intention of instigating anything, it's not as if the thought hasn't crossed his mind. The blood wells underneath his fingernails but he stays quiet: Louis had always been more malleable when Armand presented himself as meek and reasonable.  

I've seen the dates on those contracts. Were you putting the wheels in motion for Daniel that far back? You know what? Nothing would surprise me, apart from the fucking truth.

You wanted to turn him, Armand snaps. He swears under his breath. So much for meek.  

You pinning this on me after everything you did?  

You forgave me. 

Armand is aware that he’s coasting very close to the edge; the incredulous silence from Louis confirms it. But he does so with the knowledge that pushing Louis over it has often worked in the past, and he needs him off-balance. 

I forgave you for the part I thought you played in Claudia’s murder. Not the part you actually played. Not the part where you directed a play that condemned her to death or the part where you waited to see where the cards would fall, then lied and said you'd saved me. What explanation could you possibly have for any of that? 

It takes considerable restraint not to remind Louis that he had his explanation in 1949 and his failure to understand the fallout from that is not Armand's fault. It was never about how much Armand loved Louis, but a consequence of Louis' love for him, which had only been enough when it was the only thing he had left. If Louis had loved him more he might not have sided with the coven. If Louis had moved on from Lestat, Armand might have put a stop to his return to Paris. If Louis had put Claudia out of his mind after she left with Madeleine then he might have warned them not to return to Paris.

Armand's not entirely sure he would have done any of these things, even if circumstance had been different, but he might at least have thought about it. 

Nothing to say? Figures. You’ve always been fucking poison.

He can’t say Louis’ words don’t affect him, but he’s heard worse. Armand knows Louis' particular brand of cruelty and this is not it; he’s holding back.  

Which means he might give him something.  

Please. I don’t want to argue. I want to understand.

There is a pause and Armand starts to wonder if he has miscalculated and Louis' presence will fade away. 

Fine. If it’ll get you off my back. All these properties are yours. Bought by you. Used exclusively by you. The first I heard about them was from my lawyer.

But that can’t be right—

No more discussion. That's your answer and that’s the last I want to hear about this. Or from you. 

Armand is left in silence, none the wiser. 

Thirty seconds later his phone vibrates with a message. 

There’s an island as well.

Daniel is sitting in one of the most pretentious restaurants he's ever had the misfortune to visit when his phone starts to buzz. It's his researcher.   

"Hey Belinda, what's up," he says. 

"Daniel! Sure you can talk? Not interrupting anything, am I?" Daniel laughs. She’s always so fucking cagey when she calls; its been this way since the eighties. One of life's mysteries, he supposes. 

"Nah, just waiting for some asshole," he says. "Got anything on eighteenth century France for me?" 

Belinda seems to chill the fuck out then. She's building up some steam talking about what she's uncovered about aristocratic life in the Auvergne when Daniel catches sight of a familiar figure entering the restaurant. He feels a glimmer of satisfaction as he sees the color drain from Raglan James' face. He beckons him over. 

"Gotta go, Bee," he says and ends the call.  

"R.J.. What are the chances?" Daniel says as Raglan James takes a seat, looking extremely put out. "It's good to see you." 

"Is it? The last time we spoke you said - and I quote - 'if you cross my path again I'll rip your fucking head off.'" 

Daniel grins at him without a shred of repentance. "I was having a bad day. Let's catch up; I’m thinking about another book. Or show. Or fucking musical. I’m not quite sure what yet.”

Raglan James’ eyes light up. Daniel tries his best not to react. He has no intention of letting the Talamasca anywhere near his work ever again. 

“Thinking about another autobiography?” He gives Daniel an uncomfortably covetous look. “I suppose there’s unlimited scope now.”

”I’d have to do something worth talking about first.” Daniel says as James flags a waiter down. He isn’t sure pissing off most of the vampires in existence counts.  "I'm thinking about more of a general supernatural theme this time around," he lies. "I need to get a feel for how vampire powers stack up against the likes of you guys and your little party tricks." 

Raglan James scoffs. He looks offended enough that Daniel is fairly confident he'll take the bait. 

Daniel smirks. "I know a lot of you have, like, mind-reading 101. Is that all? What about compulsion? Levitation? Digging around in brains?”

"You're talking about powerful psychics. Witches, usually," James says. "I would hardly describe their abilities as party tricks." 

"So a witch could do what Armand did to Louis' memories? Come on," Daniel says. That bit hadn't made it into the book, but James knew all about it.

James puffs himself up. "It's certainly possible, though there are not many with that level of power. As for whether it would happen? Unlikely. Can you see a vampire making themselves that vulnerable? Would you? Louis and Armand were companions for many years." He gives Daniel a penetrating look. "Why?" he asks. "Have you done something you'd rather forget?" 

"Nah. If I did I'd do the old mind trick on myself," Daniel says, twirling his fingers in a pantomime magical manner.

"Now that," Raglan James says, "is impossible."

"Bullshit."

"Oh. I'm afraid so. The process of reaching into a mind itself makes it so. I thought you'd know that," James smirks. "I’d love to know why you’re asking me." Daniel feels him pushing at the edges of his thoughts. It's almost imperceptible, but it's there. Daniel pushes back.

You're not that fucking slick, he says to him. 

"And you've gained some skill," James says, begrudgingly. 

"Or you've lost some," Daniel says. 

Several evenings later, Daniel opens his eyes to find Armand standing at the foot of his bed. 

"You're aware of the time, right?" he says, rubbing his eyes. 

"Painfully. I have been waiting for several hours." Armand says, as if that’s completely normal. He's still gaunt, but better than last time, Daniel thinks, annoyed that was the first thing he noticed. Okay, maybe the second. Armand is wearing eyeliner again and has his hair brushed away from his face and … shut up Daniel. 

“So?” he says, dragging his eyes away from Armand's face to the lines of his legs in crisp, forest-green linen. Fuck.  

"Some information has come to light that I—" Armand trails off and looks pointedly to the black-out blinds. "Are you sure this set-up is safe?"  

Daniel ignores him; there’s no point playing the responsible maker now. It's irritating that the connection between them, an odd mix of calm and excitement that envelops him when Armand is close, has him wanting to reach out towards that concern, has him wanting to believe that's what it is and not an off-hand observation. Fuck that. He walks towards the shower and strips off. As he gets under the spray he hears the door open. Christ. 

“I have recently learned I own several properties I know nothing about.”

Daniel frowns and pauses, mid-lather. Armand is here to talk about real estate?

“Sure you didn’t just forget about them? It sounds like the sort of thing a multi-millionaire might do.”

“Of course not. I take my investments seriously. And Louis assures me—”

Daniel pokes his head out of the curtain, wiping at the bubbles that have landed in his eyelashes. “He’s talking to you?”

Armand’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Willingly?”

“No.” Armand hands him a towel. “He assures me the properties are mine. Completely separate assets from anything jointly owned.”

“Could be fraud," Daniel says, getting out of the shower. " Maybe that’s it. Hmm. Is fraud something multi-millionaires do?”

“I have no need to commit fraud.”

“Sure,”  Daniel says slowly. He finishes toweling himself off and moves to his hair. “Fraud’s where you decided to draw the line. Got it. My face is up here Armand. Or could it be that he’s decided to gaslight you for a change?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Louis couldn’t gaslight his way out of a floodlit—”

“So you acknowledge it.”

“Daniel—”

Daniel puts his hands up in fake apology: “Credit where credit’s due.”

“Daniel!”

The slight undertone of pleading is almost certainly manufactured. It works anyway and, after a moment’s consideration of his current, under-dressed circumstances, Daniel wraps his towel around his waist. 

"Well?" Daniel says. 

Armand swallows and drags his eyes back up to Daniel’s face. More accurately, his neck. Which is not much better considering what Armand had done to his neck the last time he was here. The memory of it has been replaying in his mind pretty constantly since. He moves his hand to rub deliberately at the place where Armand sank his nails, and then his fingers, and enjoys a deep pulse of satisfaction as Armand's mouth drops open a fraction. 

“The properties in question were all purchased in the timeframe you claim we were together. Perhaps,” Armand says from somewhere behind his teeth, “if they are familiar to you this might shed some light on the situation.”  

“Well, you only had to ask,” Daniel says agreeably. “But it depends where. Come on,’ he says, and brushes past Armand, leading the way to the lounge. He rustles through sheaves of paper on his desk. “London, Munich, New York, Amsterdam…” He trails off as he sees Armand’s fingers twitch. “Florida.” The long fingers curl into fists.  

"You wanna know more?" Daniel asks and reels off a few addresses of places they'd stayed in those cities. They'd been at some for a matter of days. Others long enough to call home. As he speaks, Armand starts to pace up and down the room, his nostrils flaring and his eyes darting around wildly. It’s kind of amusing; it's not often he's seen Armand this unnerved. But at the same time, their proximity makes his discomfort a shared thing and concern starts to win over. He coaxes Armand over to the space beside him on the couch. 

"So," he says. "This is kind of an explanation, right? I mean, not the one you want when it turns out I'm a delusional liar. But still." 

Armand raises his head to meet his eyes and glares when he finds Daniel grinning at him. 

"Stop it," he mutters. Then: "When I saw you last, much of what we spoke about didn’t make sense.” He presses his lips together for a moment. “I’ll admit I didn’t want to think about it and there were business affairs needing my attention.” His mouth twists into a wistful expression. “They were a welcome diversion even though my presence was only required to dismantle what I’d - we’d - built. But it was familiar. Normality of a sort. I wasn’t expecting those negotiations to result in a list of properties I know nothing about." 

"And you can't remember anything about them?" 

"The little house in Amsterdam, vaguely. The others? Not at all." 

"But you know when you bought them, right? There’s a timeframe?" 

Armand looks irritated but it doesn't feel directed at him. "As advised by Louis' lawyers, yes. I tried to remember these periods, obviously. On examination, I have found some of it is extremely unclear." 

Daniel thinks back to the patchy blurs and lapses he’d tried to make sense of in his autobiography. “Chunks missing? That kind of thing?” he asks. 

Armand shakes his head. “Like time has been stretched out. Something that should have taken a day becomes weeks. I travelled a lot, with Louis, back then. But it was also our habit to separate for periods and then come back together. Some of those in between times are confusing: a flight delay that lasted six days; a visit to a library spanning a weekend. Then again, it’s happened before. There are years after my Maker was killed that I can't remember clearly. That was a difficult time," he says, looking away. "Other memories from when I was mortal are completely gone." He swallows. Stops. "Other memories—" He stares off into the room for a moment before blinking and coming back to himself. "It's happened before.”  

“Listen," Daniel says, suddenly placing where he's seen that expression before. "Before you go any further, it’s been bothering me, what I said to you outside the bookstore. I assume that was you, outside my apartment? Either that or I was apologizing to the rats or a pile of garbage, or—”

Armand places his hand over Daniel's to stop him. “I was there. I accept your apology, though there really is no need. In all honestly no one has cared about that, myself included, for centuries.”

It takes every fiber of Daniel’s being not to call bullshit. He might have been willing to concede that abuse in the 1500s was viewed differently, except for how that doesn’t track with San Francisco: Armand’s subtle grimace, then blankness, as he recalled his first memory. How he shut down just after his attempt to recall his second. It doesn’t explain why, if what happened to him in Venice was so inconsequential, he took Louis on a gallery tour to illustrate how his Maker had made use of him and told him that was love. How, out of all the memories of Paris he could have picked, he prompted Louis to re-tell the same story to Daniel years later. 

“Well, I do,” Daniel says. 

Armand looks down at their hands. “You care about the strangest things. And you have a point about the truth, I suppose.” 

“Since we’re on the topic of pushing boundaries, there’s something I need to tell you,” Daniel says. “I had an off-the-record chat with the Talamasca about who else can do the mind-fuck thing. It’s fine,” he says as Armand’s jaw tenses. “I was discreet." 

"Were you really?" Daniel seriously doubts Armand could pack more skepticism into his reply. "I'd love to know what you're calling discreet since I have never once known you to show an ounce of discretion."

Daniel decides not to rise to that, mainly because Armand's right. "Okay," he says. "We know you can do it. Louis can. Lestat too. So: vampires. But what about others?"

"What about them?" 

"From what my contact tells me, it's possible a witch might have the power." 

"Hmm." Armand gives him a sour look. "And what else did Mr. James - sorry, are we still pretending I don't know who your source is? - tell you?"  

Daniel laughs. An unexpected pulse of joy washes over him as Armand shoots him a rare, real smile. Armand can’t compel him to do anything anymore - he knows that - but the desire to keep him happy, amused, or just fucking there, has its own kind of strength.

"My source,” he says and Armand’s lips twitch. “As good as confirmed it’s impossible to destroy your own memories. I mean, he could be lying, but I think I pissed him off enough that he let the truth slip just to lord it over me a bit."

"And you really think a mortal is capable of this?" 

Daniel shrugs. "No idea. I've met a few psychics and witches, but I wasn't after their mind-fucking services. What I do know is that you messing around in my head has a whole different feel to what you described. Maybe it wasn’t a vampire?" 

"And why would I let them do that?" Armand says. 

"See, that's what James said. The man has a point. I can't imagine what it would take for you to give up that much control." 

"I could see if I can find out more.” Daniel says. “He's desperate to find out why I'm interested and I've got absolutely no scruples about feeding him more bullshit to get what I want. But, they’re your memories, and it turns out I do have a few scruples about this potentially leading back to you." 

“How considerate.” Armand sounds amused, but there’s an edge to it. “Most vampires would be more concerned I would burn them alive for the lines you’ve crossed. But in case you’re unclear about my wishes, I do not want the Talamasca involved.”

Daniel bumps his shoulder and says, gentler than he has any need to be: “More trouble than they're worth anyway. And you can always change your mind." 

Armand gently withdraws his hand and pulls his knees up to his chin. "Obviously I can," he says, into his knees. "When we talked last I wasn’t expecting what you showed me. I didn't want to hear it and I reacted,” he hurries on, “hastily. Perhaps it might jog my memory to hear about what happened from you. There are things that don’t make sense to me about Dubai. Before Dubai." 

"And after Dubai? I mean, there’s a whole lot after Dubai that didn’t make sense to me. Though I guess you spent that being heartbroken about Louis." 

Armand hugs his knees tighter to his chest. When he looks up the feeling of grief is so visceral that it floods their bond with something close to physical pain. In that moment Daniel feels like he would do anything to make it stop. 

"Sorry," Armand says, gesturing to the space between them. "A consequence of our," he frowns, searching for the word, "kinship.”

That’s one, grossly inaccurate way of putting it, Daniel thinks. 

“You caught me off-guard," Armand says. "I didn’t expect anyone to understand that I could still be," his voice cracks over the next word, "heartbroken considering, well, it stems largely from things I did. Maybe," he continues, "I need to start letting Louis go."

Daniel considers that. If Armand wants his opinion, which he probably doesn't, he's getting the impression that it’s never say never with vampires even when they've done terrible things to each other. Then again, he's a mere septuagenarian. What does he know? Without giving himself time to think about it, he puts his arm around Armand's shoulder and pulls him in for a hug. 

"Okay," Daniel says after a while. "It's dark. I need to hunt." 

“You need to put on some clothes,” Armand points out from where his cheek rests against Daniel’s collarbone. 

“You think? Let’s go out. Afterwards, if you want to talk, we’ll talk.” 

Chapter Text

Armand loiters at the end of a poorly-lit alleyway. He can hear Daniel somewhere in the shadows having the time of his life with the blood vessels of the man he dragged down there.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and looks for a game to occupy him but his thoughts keep returning to Daniel's frank observation about Louis. It had brought him face-to-face with a reality he had worked hard to avoid. Add to that the rare experience of being understood. Seen. Daniel understanding enough about him to work something out and just... accept it. 

Armand is aware, largely through the claims of the wellness experts he follows, that this is supposed to be a good thing. Healthy. But regardless of the current wisdom on the matter he doesn't particularly like how it feels, mostly because the thing under scrutiny wasn't something he'd carefully curated before allowing it into the world. What it feels like is exposure, a quick stop before one's vulnerabilities are laid bare and shortly after that, exploited. He allows himself a quiet laugh. He has no right to this feeling when he is more usually the one pushing at cracks and weaknesses to see what will give. The only reassuring thing, he thinks, is that Daniel's understanding is unlikely to be something he will need to get used to. 

"Ready?" Daniel emerges from the shadows wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. Armand scans his face for pity or any other unwelcome emotion. It's miserable not being able to read his thoughts, but there's nothing there except the usual fight between wariness and curiosity. He supposes that will do.  

“Sure you don’t want anything?” Daniel tips his head towards the alleyway. Armand imagines that a responsible maker ought to check that he has taken care of the body, but he is not that. And while Daniel has his faults, so far he has shown himself to be pleasingly competent. 

“No, thank you.” Armand says, mulling over the difference between want and need. He always craves sustenance of one sort or another, but more often than not doesn't require it. Mostly it's bafflingly hard to know what he needs, hunger having been a pervasive, confusing constant in his life for as long as he can remember. Hard to distinguish, sometimes, what his hunger is in response to.

He has noted, though never wanted to interrogate why, love often feels like starvation. Compassion, in the forms he has received it, feels like that too. But he has seen too often how creatures who are helpless against the ravenous side of their nature end up. Resisting that part of himself is one of the most valuable lessons he has learned. 

They walk back to the apartment in silence. From time to time Daniel pushes at their bond. Armand isn't sure he wants that connection back just yet but he finds himself reaching out anyway, just so Daniel can feel him. 

When he is seated on the comfortable, untidy sofa, Daniel dumps a pile of notebooks on the coffee table.

“This is it, give or take a few things. You’ve seen the photographs. There’s a post office box I can’t explain. A passage in my autobiography where I mention the guy people said I hung out with but I couldn’t remember shit about at the time. It’s you, obviously.”

“I interacted with others?” Armand is horrified.

“Kinda,” Daniel says, walking towards the kitchen. “It was more a stand in the corner and glower type situation, but people found you likeable anyway. It was annoying.”

Daniel returns and places a tall glass, almost filled to the brim with warmed blood, on the table. Absently, Armand takes a sip and moves it to a coaster.

"Here. You should start here," Daniel says, handing him the first one. "New Orleans, and on from there."  

Armand reads at speed and starts to enjoy the tale as one might do fiction. A story of two mismatched people who - it seems - have trouble staying away from one another. Well, Armand corrects himself with a brief smile, that's not the only mismatch. One is attempting to stay away and the other is far too skilled at tracking him down. 

What somewhat takes him out of it is how Daniel portrays him. At the start, in New Orleans, he recognises himself easily in the vampire that Daniel describes. He has to suppress an approving purr as he reads about keeping Daniel prisoner for days and scaring him almost to death. That depiction he enjoys very much, but as the narrative weaves a haphazard route over Europe he starts to note the change in the way Daniel writes about him.

"This doesn't sound like me," he says. "Is it really how I came across?" 

Daniel looks up from his puzzle. "Dramatic? Murderous? Running hot and cold? Please. That's all you."

"Not that. Why am I so interested in you? I want to know what you were thinking and what you were doing and why you were doing it." He wrinkles his nose. "I sound obsessive," then: "Stop that," when Daniel raises his eyebrows. "Obsessed with a mortal, I mean."

What he means is that this is more than simple pursuit. What he means is that it's a story about taking Daniel into his confidence, revealing his ignorance and confusion about the world because Daniel's opinions mattered to him. What he means is that he doesn't recognise himself. 

But Daniel can't hear any of that. He says: "What can I say? You found me fascinating." 

Armand gives him a distinctly unamused look. "Why would I want to understand the world through mortals' eyes? I never needed them before; their affairs hold little interest for me.” It unsettles him that Daniel has had access to a version of him that is more unpolished and carefree than he would ever consider sharing in private, let alone with a guy Louis picked up at a bar. He frowns. “I seem to be enjoying myself." 

"Wait till the part when you get excited over mortal appliances. Or when you drop the scary monster act and you're actually quite sweet." Armand narrows his eyes and Daniel has the gall to laugh openly in his face. "Doesn't sound like you at all, right? But it's what I remember." 

"Hmm," Armand says and deliberately pulls a notebook from partway down the pile: Boston. 

“For a description of a meal, there are a lot of feelings,” Armand points out after glancing through the first few pages. He turns over.   

“I wanted something to compare how I felt about you then and how I feel about you now. Big gap, in case you're wondering.”

"Oh, I’m sure,” Armand says, without looking up. He tucks a stray curl behind his ear.  

"After the meal, what then?" Armand asks. "Here you write that you got drunk because I laughed. Why?"

Daniel pauses, his eyes softening. "It was the first time I heard it," he says, which is at once no explanation and enough of one that Armand has no wish to pursue it.

"And after?" 

"We wandered around the city; I needed to walk the food off before I fell asleep. You were very much against that and had the staff decant some whiskey into a hip flask for me, which they kept their faces impressively neutral about." Daniel frowns. "Or maybe you kept their faces neutral about. Things get blurry then but we ended up in front of a museum. I must have sobered up as I remember very clearly it was closed but you sailed straight past security." Daniel's face creases into a smile. "That made you laugh again." 

"Did that drive you to drink again?" 

Daniel shakes his head. "There was a painting I liked of a storm," he says, head tilting to the side as he recalls it. "We stood in front of it for a long time. You must have seen it before because you insisted on telling me all about it." Daniel's expression softens. "I was paying more attention to how you'd sneaked your arm around my waist and rested your head on my shoulder. I thought you were going to kiss me." 

Armand moves closer. "Did I?" he asks. He thinks that even if he hadn’t then, he could do now. 

"Hang on," Daniel says. "You had that painting in Dubai." 

Armand stiffens. "We had many artworks. You're likely confused."  

Daniel's eyes change colour and his expression sharpens. "Confused. Right. That hotel? All those courses? That museum? Where we look at a painting I next see in your fucking dining room in Dubai. The same place where for some reason Louis treats me to a near re-enactment of the Copley dining experience." He gives Armand a hard look. "Nothing odd about that at all." 

Armand stares back at him. Daniel looks like he wants to shake him but, really, what can he do? He doesn't have an explanation. 

"And," Daniel continues, "you’ve never explained how the Rembrandt came into your possession. Do I want to know what you were doing on March 18th 1990? Because I have theories."

"Probably not."

Armand knows exactly where he was. He must fail spectacularly at hiding his discomfort at being found out as Daniel takes one look at him, the skeptical little frown creasing his brow a delight in itself, and starts laughing. Armand looks away, trying not to laugh at the idea that there was ever a scenario where Daniel might let this go. He fails at this spectacularly too. 

"Your theories might be right," he mutters when he catches his breath. He might tell Daniel about it sometime. 

He sneaks a glance at Daniel and finds him still looking at him. It's difficult to place his expression, but their bond reverberates with a delicate frisson. It takes him a second to realise that they are smiling at one another.

"Up until Boston I thought you were so serious," Daniel says. "It was the fucking giggles coming out of you that got me. It's when I fell for you." 

After the uncomplicated electricity of their shared amusement, Daniel's one-sided nostalgia feels like a bucket of cold water. Armand clears his throat and reaches for another notebook. "So. Italy," he says. 

"You'll need these," Daniel says, fishing out two more. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his jeans pocket and heads to the balcony. 

Meanwhile, in the lounge, Armand is transported from the cold of Brooklyn to summer in Pompeii. Daniel sounds like he'd been a handful. Armand can recognise the brash, uncertain, over-confidence of the boy he was then in Daniel of today. He wonders why he chose that particular moment to let him live. He preens a little at the description of what he is wearing at the Villa of the Mysteries: Roman-style sandals which Daniel thought looked at once incongruous and flattering with his denim outfit. As he reads about how he had pushed Daniel to his knees and Daniel had run his fingers along the leather of the sandals tracing the outline of his feet, following the same route with his lips before Armand drew him back up, he starts to feel a dizzying combination of discomfort and arousal. He wishes that he could remember just a little of this himself. 

After reading the first few pages of Rome, he drains the glass of blood and goes to join Daniel on the balcony. 

"You didn't skimp on the details," he says, waving the notebook at him.  

"I held back, if anything," Daniel replies. He turns from his contemplation of the apartment block opposite to give Armand a direct, appraising look. Armand takes a deep breath. His face feels hot.

"I'm beginning to think you're enjoying this," he says. 

When they return inside, Armand's eye is drawn to the most tattered, ripped-up notepad. He pulls it out from the bottom of the pile and opens it. Chicago, 1985. There are only a few pages. 

"You're rushing ahead," says Daniel.

“What happened to this one?" Armand asks.

When Daniel doesn't answer, he starts to read aloud from the third page: " 'I’d been running again. For weeks. Months maybe. Florida was a distant memory. All I could think of was Armand and the blood, my other addictions paling into insignificance. We’d argued again, in Warsaw I think. Armand was feeding me drops of his blood, barely taking any of mine. Trying to distract me with plays and museums and music and people and galleries, but there was no replacing it. Nothing was fun anymore. We barely fucked because I’d try to make him bite me. I recognise it was depression, now, worse with every failed attempt to shake my addiction to him. The withdrawal was like a slow death. Then there was the anger. The betrayal. The person that could save me didn’t care enough to do so.' "

Armand passes the notebook back to Daniel. It's not the most flattering portrayal. "Why does it finish there? " 

“I —” Daniel says. “I did write the rest of it. I destroyed it. It’s — painful." 

Armand places his hand over Daniel’s and the sadness that has been building between them recedes.

Daniel shrugs. "If you want to know now, I'll try. For what it's worth anyway. Your blood unlocked my memories but some of it's still a mess because, well, I was a mess." 

“If you’re sure,” Armand says. He rubs his thumb over Daniel's knuckles. They're still warm from the kill. 

"You normally found me when I ran off, but this time you hadn't and I was desperate. I can remember that I was fucking angry with you. I was so fucking in love with you. I wanted to do something that would bring you back. But when I thought of having you back, I would get angry and want to keep you away again. I wasn't eating. I was existing on brandy and pills, I think. Starting to hallucinate.

"Somehow I ended up in Chicago, though I was barely aware of where I was. Sleeping on and off during the day, terrified I'd fucked up and you were sick of me, bitter enough that I wanted to do worse. I remember being drunk and in pain, but I couldn't tell if it was physical or emotional, or which I would prefer." Daniel pauses. "Things get even more confused from there. I think—" He trails off, then: "Yeah, I remember shouting at a man in an alleyway then passing out. When I came to, I stumbled out onto a main road and leaned against the window of a bookshop. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath and then you were there." He shakes his head. "I was so happy to see you, but you were frantic. Your eyes were doing that thing they do when you're just about to lose your shit." Daniel tilts his head to the side. "Your fangs were extended? Maybe I hallucinated that, because the next I know I wake up in a hospital bed with you sitting next to me. I guess my stupid plan succeeded because I have never seen you look so worried.

"I was terrified I’d pushed you too far." Daniel says. The laugh that comes out of him is self-deprecating, but he grips Armand's hand and links their fingers together tightly. "That moment, the one when you know you've fucked up? It’s one I got pretty familiar with over the years, usually just after I’d sailed past it. I was beside myself. I was sorry. I was promising you anything so you would stay." Daniel looks down, then back, at Armand, his eyes rimmed with blood. "It's a shitty memory even after fifty years. But you were so sweet. So kind. You told me everything was going to be fine and I fucking believed you. The next time I saw you was in Dubai and I didn't know who you were." 

Armand looks away. Daniel's anguish and anger are as keen as if they were his own.

“Why?” Armand asks. “I don’t understand. What was it about that time that made it worse than all the others?” 

“Who knows with you?”  Daniel says. “Maybe you’d had enough of my bullshit. There was enough of it: peeling me off of street corners, dragging me out of drug dens, pulling me away from fights." He laughs. "I’d have dumped me.” 

“That's no explanation. You were doing that all the time. What happened?”

“I don’t fucking know!” Daniel says, exasperated, and pulls his hand away. “You fucked off without a word, remember? Maybe you were sick of me asking for the gift. Maybe Louis was a better bet. You found another mortal to love you. You were bored of my face. Take your pick. All I know was you were there one day and gone the next.”  

Armand turns it over in his head, examining what he's learned from every angle, analysing his behaviour and extrapolating from that what it might have done to Daniel.

"It's possible I loved you," he muses. "Perhaps that's why I let you go." 

Daniel's expression doesn't change but the distress lurking under the surface is impossible to miss.

Daniel arrives in Nashville late the next evening just as Lestat finishes a warm-up gig.

Although the journey had been a logistical challenge he was glad of the excuse to be out of town. His conversation with Armand was troubling him. The cold It's possible I loved you, spoken as indifferently as someone might pick out groceries at a store was a bumpy return to reality. No matter what connection they had now, Armand couldn't remember shit about them. 

It's hard to get much sense out of Lestat tonight, who is so hyped up that he can barely keep still, prowling around the dressing room like a chaotic, glittered-up panther. Every time Daniel tries to pull him back to the here and now he either blanks him or changes from one topic to another so fast that it's impossible to keep up.

Close to admitting defeat, Daniel goes to put some music on. Less than optimally, each record appears to be a break-up album. He hasn’t listened to Blood on the Tracks in years, and given his current mood he thinks he'd get a kick out of Dylan at his bitchy finest. Maybe another time, he thinks. A bit too on the nose for his current company. He slides the LP into his bag; it’s his anyway.

He looks back at Lestat who has his fangs in one of the groupies who came in with him. The rapturous moans and smell of blood, seduction overlaid with tequila and weed, is difficult to ignore.

Lestat looks up from the man’s neck, his fangs bloody. He beckons Daniel over with a curl of his index finger as the man groans and attempts to pull Lestat back to him. 

“Care to join us?” he says. “Our friend here should be good for a little longer.”

If Lestat carries on the way he’s going, Daniel seriously doubts that the man will be fit for much except cremation. Which is not to say he's against it. He feels his fangs begin to lengthen as he considers the appeal of finding oblivion in chemically-enhanced blood, but his momentary hesitation is too long for Lestat who stands and lurches out of the room, dragging the young man with him. 

Daniel is sitting there deciding whether to wait around, find another groupie, or hang out with the band, when the door opens and Louis slides in. 

"It's okay," Daniel says, holding his hands up. "I'm going." 

"You don't need to avoid me,"  Louis says. "I guess I've missed Lestat?" 

Daniel nods. "No idea where he went. Sorry."

"I can't believe you're doing another fucking interview," Louis glances at the bloodstains on the empty sofa where Lestat had been lying. "Well, attempting." 

Daniel ignores that. "Hey, you know Armand's back?” 

"I heard.” Louis says. “Apparently I need to get your news from Lestat these days.”

“It's not like you wanted to talk to me, Louis.” 

“Daniel," Louis says softly. "I know things are kind of fucked right now, but this is important. I want to know.”

“So you want to know about Armand now?” 

“I want to know how you are, about him.”

Daniel has to hand it to Louis for not rising to the Armand-laced bait. After the book he’d been ready to write off their friendship, falling back into the familiarity of pushing people away rather than repairing what was broken. That Louis, who holds a grudge like most people hold a new-born, is extending an olive branch is something unexpected. It's something he wants very much. 

Daniel runs a hand through his hair. "Honestly? I don't know. You know he can't remember anything about us?"

"So I hear." So those two have been gossiping. Good to know they've been trading something other than insults. "You buy that?" 

"Yeah," Daniel says. "Actually I do. I think he's having a hard time; it's difficult to tell what's going on with him at all." 

"I asked how you are, not how he is. Are you avoiding the question?" 

"Nah," Daniel says. "Maybe. Messed up? Angry? Bit sad. Bit attached. Some days I just roll with it being maker-fledgling weirdness. Other times I feel like I'm going crazy, being the only one who can remember a whole twelve years of history. At least he kind of accepts it happened now."

"Generous." Louis loses himself in thought for a moment. Then, a cold smile. "I'd imagine it must be driving him mad. Is he behaving himself?" 

"Ha," says Daniel. "Mostly. He's okay company. But you know that, right?"

Daniel’s aware he’s pushing his luck, but he doesn’t buy that a relationship as long as Louis’ and Armand’s was all revenge and convenience. It's no surprise Armand's struggling, but although Louis has arguably more pressing issues, he has let go of a long relationship too. The few days he'd spent with them as a couple had been long enough to determine that he and Louis had their routines. They did things together, they went out, they had shared interests, ongoing conversations. He’d heard some serious arguments going on from behind those bedroom walls but there had also been debates, inside jokes, gossip. Seventy years and then nothing; that's got to be a head-fuck. 

Louis' raises his eyebrows and mouths Okay company back at him. "Fuck off, Daniel says. "You can stop judging me any time you like."

"I'm not judging," he says. Daniel rolls his eyes and Louis shoots him a cheeky grin. "Alright, I'm attempting not to judge you. I remember the bond between maker and fledgling. The obsession. The sense of completion.” He pauses and swallows heavily. “The love." 

I wouldn't go that far, Daniel thinks, shortly followed by: Have you told him any of this?  

"In any case," Louis continues, ignoring Daniel's very audible thoughts, "I don't think there's anything I could say that would keep you from him. You know my story. What I would have done differently. I don't expect you to take any notice and I understand that." He sighs. "In time you may want to leave, but for now the compulsion to stay with him will be too strong." 

"Do you still feel like that about Lestat?" Daniel ventures, ready to have his head bitten off. 

"I'm worried about Lestat," Louis rises, ready to leave as soon as his own vulnerabilities come under the spotlight. "He's avoiding me. When I see him, I know there're things he's not telling me. I want you to keep an eye on him." 

"You could do that," Daniel points out. He's not sure how he can help given his and Lestat's sporadic interactions, and personalities, veer strongly towards the self-destructive.

"I'm trying," Louis says. "But I think I’m pushing him away. Please?" 

Daniel returns from Nashville hours after sunset has shifted to the artificial illumination of night. He finds Armand on his doorstep again, complaining about Daniel's absence the night before.

“I’m surprised you didn’t just break in and make yourself at home,” Daniel says. He unlocks the door and Armand sweeps past him, the tails of his long overcoat stirring up the air in his wake. Daniel bites down a smile: it puts him in mind of their early days when Armand had no concept of Daniel having other things to do.

Two nights ago, after Armand's realisation that Daniel might have been something precious to him, he'd been different. They'd talked a little more and his gestures, already tentative and considered, had become exceptionally gentle. He’d listened attentively, scrutinising Daniel as if just the fact of his existence might uncover more clues.

Daniel has to admit that it's a relief to share all of this with someone. There's Louis, of course, but they were barely back on speaking terms. Lestat would probably pull up a chair, several blood bags and settle in for the night, but Daniel didn’t want his most private moments immortalised in song or whatever method Lestat was using to process his emotions these days, so he was out too. 

What happened? Armand’s words followed him around for hours after he’d left. Daniel wasn’t an idiot: he could hazard a guess at what ended them. Hindsight helpfully supplies that he hadn't been far off vampiric himself: desperate, chemically-dependant, famished. He can't blame Armand for being unable to see through that to the other side where Daniel waited, hopeful that he might be enough. Perhaps he really was a black hole, and who would want to be close to something in constant danger of collapsing in on itself? 

And now they were back again in his apartment, about to interrogate Daniel's memories of pain and euphoria, fear of not being enough alongside a newer worry that, for this particular person, he might be. Back then, that had not sat well with him. Armand’s I might have loved you had brought him back to the first time he had heard similar words from Armand, in Pompeii. He'd noted how Armand of the present had skimmed over that in the same way he had in the past. 

He follows Armand into his apartment and watches as he makes a beeline for the notebooks on the coffee table.

"I should not have jumped ahead," Armand says, without preamble. "I want you to tell me more; I need a complete understanding. All you say here is: I left Rome for New York. Armand followed.” he stabs at the page with his finger. “Considering you didn’t hold back about anything just prior, I’m interested to know what happened here.”

"I went back for a story," Daniel says carefully. "I - you sometimes - stayed there until the following spring." 

"There's more to it than that," Armand says. "You did this in Dubai. Avoided questions you didn't like. Deflected. Why is there a gap?"

"Maybe I started to feel bad about my carbon footprint," Daniel says. "It's a lot of notebooks." 

Armand stares at him patiently. 

"Ah, okay," Daniel says. "Things changed after Italy. Not just that we were sleeping together. The way you were with me changed and I wasn't sure what to do with that." 

Back then Daniel would admit - if only to himself - that while he did what he had to for drugs or stories, even, he was more often than not an extremely willing participant. But always with the safety of being able to take it or leave it. Yeah, some of the guys at Mary’s Bar were fucking hot, some he couldn’t keep his hands off, but once he’d got what he claimed he came for it was done. 

This things between them was not the same. It wasn’t just the times Armand showed up with his relentless questions. He had taken to thinking about him before and after. Wondering where he was, if he’d come back, what they’d do next. He’d thought, once or twice, about what it might feel to walk alongside Armand, stroll down the street hand-in-hand. He was shocked at how fast he recoiled from that image. 

He would remember, without being able to contextualise it, that same feeling of needful disconnection Louis described when talking about how quickly he withdrew after that first night with Lestat. A sliver of coldness Armand had said, back in San Francisco. Daniel would remember those words almost a week later. He wouldn't join the dots between the two until his memories of Armand had returned. 

"After Italy my guard started to drop," he says. "I didn't like it, and you didn't like that I tried to pull back." 

"There's not much guard dropping with I left Rome for New York," Armand says. "Let me guess; banal mortal morality got to you." 

"Spot on," Daniel says. "Almost word perfect." 

"So?" Armand says. 

In Rome when he finally surfaces, there's a moment when everything feels perfectly aligned. He isn't sure yet how much time has passed, only that Armand made him spell out exactly what he wanted and how much he wanted it before finally giving it to him. Over and over again.

Wincing, he rolls onto his back and quietly enjoys the cloud-like softness of those memories, groaning now and again as he alternates between stroking and pressing into his bruises. He is contemplating waking Armand when an insidious thought burrows its way into the near-bliss.

He freezes. He can't do this. This isn’t how it works. 

The thought shocks him out of bed. He sits up. It’s midday. Outside the sun is scorching. He scrabbles around for his cigarettes. Behind him on the bed Armand stirs, blinking lazily, barely covered by an improbably clean sheet.

“What happened?” Daniel’s stomach flips as Armand smiles, slow and dazzling. 

He reaches for the familiar mask of coldness. 

“It’s fine. Everything’s fine,” he purposefully lets his eyes drift over Armand’s frown. “I need some air.”

He walks out of the hotel room and gets a taxi to the airport. 

A month passes before he sees Armand again. He’s in the New York public library reading room, mind half on some research, half on where his next fix is coming from, another, completely separate fraction of his thoughts is never far from Armand. Away from him, it's harder to make sense of whatever it is between them. He tries to shape his frequent, irresistible imaginings into the mold of all his other hook-ups but he's unable to create the same sense of distance that is normally second-nature.  

It will work when the dreams stop, he tells himself. 

“Did I do something wrong?” Armand asks, appearing out of nowhere in a seat opposite him. Out fucking loud in the silence of the library. A few heads go up. A few shushes. “I thought you weren’t running any more.” 

“For fuck's sake Armand keep quiet!” 

“I asked you a question.”

"Everything's fine," Daniel hisses.  

"Then why," Armand pauses, then raises his voice, "did you leave me in Italy?" 

"Armand!" Daniel whispers furiously, getting to his feet. He grabs Armand by the elbow and marches him to the corridor outside. 

"You forgot your bag," Armand says.

"I forgot my - fuck! Stay here!"

"Keep your voice down," Armand whispers mockingly as he storms back into the room. 

When he returns, Armand is casually leaning against the wall, smirking. Infuriated, Daniel walks straight past, down the staircase, out of the building and onto the street. He doesn't care if Armand follows, but he can feel him just a few steps behind. When he gets to the entrance of Bryant Park, Daniel whirls around and backs Armand into the railings. 

"What do you want with me?" Daniel says, reaches for the language he uses when things get out of hand. “It was a hook-up. A fucking weird one, but a hook-up. Take it or—” 

“—I’ll take it.”  

The speed with which Armand responds takes the wind out of his sails and Daniel's mind goes straight back to Pompeii and Rome: kisses and blood, cool fingers and heated skin and raw desire. Shit. What was he thinking? He'd give Armand anything he—

" 'anything he wants to have this again'," Armand says. "I do want it again. Do you, Daniel?"

"Stop that." 

“Your thoughts are so loud I’m surprised mortals can’t hear them.”

"Mortals have manners," Daniel snipes. Then, getting no reaction: “Fine. You’re here now. Want to go somewhere?” He inclines his head towards the park and starts walking. 

“Really, Daniel? Isn’t this too well-lit for your usual assignations?” 

“Have you got a better suggestion?” 

By the time they argue their way across the park and to the entrance of Armand’s hotel, Daniel has had enough. He doesn't know if he wants Armand or he wants him to go away. He certainly doesn't care about the story he's working on any more, but he's so wound up he can't tell if its from desire or frustration or longing or confusion. He heads straight for the minibar, pours himself several fingers of whiskey and gulps it down. 

Gasping as the whiskey burns its way down his esophagus, he turns. Armand is looking at him fondly, almost shyly; the rush of emotion Daniel feels is as unexpected as it is overwhelming. 

"Anything I want," Armand says.

Daniel nods. 

Afterwards, lying in a pool of blood-stained sheets and comforters, it's hard to remember why it was so important to resist Armand. 

"I don’t see why this is so difficult for you to grasp," Armand says waspishly, tangling and untangling his fingers in Daniel's hair as they lie facing one another. He has opened the tip of the index finger on his free hand and is lazily feeding Daniel drops of his blood, watching him with a strange, unblinking fascination. "I want to know what mortal relations feel like in this century."

Daniel snorts at the expression. "I think you've felt that a few times now."

"Not that."  

"Then what?" Daniel asks. What else is there? he thinks. 

Armand gives him a phenomenally bitchy look. "It’s a shame, Daniel. Unfortunate, really, with your short lifespan, that you waste so much time on the lies you tell yourself. As if being a man or a woman matters in the slightest." 

“If I’m going to be dead in a few years anyway why do you care?”

“I’m not sure,” Armand looks genuinely confused. ”That’s not the point I am making: you’re squandering what time have on ridiculous notions.”  

Daniel isn’t used to talking like this. He wants to snap at Armand but with the tiny bit of self-preservation he possesses he knows this to be unwise. Armand might have said beautiful, terrifying, human words in Pompeii, words Daniel tries not to think about, but he is still a monster. And Daniel is still mortal. 

“This is just what we do. You want something. I want something.” 

“Why is it so difficult to think of this as something other than an exchange? It is something other than that. You know it. You know I lov—”

Daniel laughs nervously and puts his finger over Armand’s lips. 

“We’re different.” He points back and forth between them. "Mortal, immortal. There’s only a few ways this can go and they all have an expiry. You get bored and leave, you kill me, you outlive me. There’s a shelf life to you and me and I’m ok with that.” His voice doesn't waver but he's aware of the stutter of breath in his throat as he speaks. “This is okay in the Castro or here, just about. But when you're gone, what then? There's no going back, no family to raise, no community.” 

“You want that?”

In all honesty, Daniel couldn’t give a shit. He will come to understand much later that the appeal of a conventional trajectory lies in the invisible power of no alternative having ever been presented.

But back then the boyish version of himself was nowhere near being able to comprehend, much less negotiate, the conflict between a long-imagined, uninspiring future within the sharply confining borders of society and his life at the time. It simply added up to a frustrated confusion that had him ready to lash out.

The hopeless look that surfaces briefly over Armand’s face stops him in his tracks. He wonders if, for all the power he has, it bothers him that the things Daniel doesn’t care about are forever out of his reach. 

"Not a family," Armand says, picking the words out of his head. "Something else. It feels different? New?" 

Armand confusion disarms him. He knows what's happening here is only possible because it isn't ever going to be real, but he owes him at least this much. He takes a deep breath. He can do this. He can be honest.

"Yeah, different," he brings his hand up to stroke the side of Armand's face. "When I'm with you everything feels like a new discovery. I didn’t know my brain or my heart or my body could feel any of this." 

Armand's face contorts into the expression of someone much younger. He swallows. 

“But you don’t want it?” Armand asks. Daniel shakes his head. Not that. 

“You don’t like it?” 

Daniel laughs. “You know that’s not it either. But to have you means I can't have,” he gestures wildly around him. “the rest of it. I can’t have both.” 

Armand doesn't have a reply for that but the look he gives him is harrowing and ancient.

Back in the present, Armand is looking at him in an eerily similar way. Daniel recalls that the very next night Armand had provided a solution that he said would maintain some distance between them. That hadn't made it into the notebook. He doesn't feel like explaining it right now. 

“And you say I ran hot and cold,” Armand stubs his cigarette out savagely in the overflowing ashtray. "We can only hope you became less uptight as time went on."

”I pulled my head out of my ass at some point, yeah,” Daniel says. 

He tries to focus on the here and now but in his minds eye he’s already walking down Parisian streets, smoking in little cafes, seeing his whole world in Armand and their doomed romance. 

“Candle,” says Armand the next night. He nods approvingly as Daniel ignites the wick of a thin taper candle he’s brought over. “Good,” he says and Daniel is suffused with warmth at the praise.

Armand had arrived in a long coat and a few choice words about Daniel not taking his immortal life seriously enough, with a side of blame directed at Louis and Lestat as apparently he should know the rudiments of the Fire Gift by now. All fair points that Daniel would have taken on board with more grace if not for the condescending manner in which they were delivered.

Sometimes he feels as if Armand fluctuates between genuine interest and politely entertaining him. At least he’s here, he thinks. Knowing the desolation of vampire loneliness for just a couple of years gives him a very small - just larger than minuscule - sense of sympathy for how Armand must have been after Marius burned.

Armand blows out the candle. “Again” he says.

For fuck's sake.

"Did you know about the Talamasca back in the 1940s?" Daniel asks. Perhaps it's because Armand's all business tonight, but his sense of their bond is whisper-thin.

‘No,’ Armand says. ‘Later. When Louis had recovered enough strength to want to retrieve certain items we returned to Paris to find them removed. It became obvious we were being watched. Documented." He smirks. "Or attempts were being made." 

"So you had no idea."  

Armand's face remains neutral. “Try the cigarette," he says and puts it to his lips.

"You're feeling very confident about your hair," Daniel says. 

"With the time you’re taking over this I fully expect there to be time for it to grow back. Come on. Now Daniel." 

Armand is taking this way too seriously, Daniel thinks. He’s also genuinely wary of setting Armand on fire. His hair anyway. It’s loose and curly today, a halo around his face. It would be a shame to ruin something so lovely, even for a few hours. 

Armand lights his cigarette with a flame from him own palm and places it in Daniel’s mouth. He takes another out of the pack. 

"Would you like me to tie my hair back?" he asks.  

Grumbling, Daniel lights the cigarette. 

‘Speaking of the Talamasca, has your grubby little contact come up with any more ways to pry into our lives? Candle.” 

“I thought you weren’t interested.” Daniel glares at the tea light on the far side of the room and the magazine next to it, with The Vampire Lestat on the cover, bursts into flames.

“Hmm,” Armand fights a smile at the frustrated look Daniel gives him. 

“I could make a solid argument that the Talamasca are more reliable than you,” Daniel retorts. “And you’re fine with accepting this happened, but not remembering any of it?”

“It's irrelevant to my current plans. Candle. Again. Come on.” 

Very tactfully in his view, Daniel does not point out that Armand’s only plan currently appears to be coming over to his apartment and getting under his skin. Instead, he focuses on the cuff of Armand's white shirt and creates a few sparks, just for the look of outrage on his face. 

"That's enough for tonight. Clearly you are more interested in irritating me than receiving instruction."  

"Oh, I’m interested. I’m especially interested in how the instruction only started once you were desperate to get a bit of distance between us." It was impossible to miss how uncomfortable Armand had become when he'd wandered into periods when they had been happy: Dublin, Antalya, Siena, Amsterdam. Florida, when they had almost been content. But, without fail, he directed his questions to the stormier parts of their history.  

"And how can I win in this scenario?" Armand says. "Aside from your aversion to criticism in any form, on one hand I am a woefully inadequate maker, making up ground. On the other I am creating distance with my instruction. Which is it to be?" 

They both fall quiet. The evening falls flat after that. It’s disappointing. It had felt as if they were moving toward the easy, affectionate regard that put Daniel in mind of before. Maybe he was just kidding himself. Maybe he needs blood. His fangs lengthen at the thought. Yeah, that's it. He looks at Armand, gaunt but still radiant in the light of a dozen recently lit candles.

"Want to head out?" he asks. Armand shakes his head.

Suit yourself, Daniel thinks. "You're going to have to go," he says, pulling on his jacket.

Daniel is expecting a bit more resistance, but Armand simply follows him to the door. It's only as Daniel unlocks it and stands to the side to let him pass that Armand stops. "What we were doing tonight,” he says quietly. “I wanted a break from the past, not that I remember it. Nothing's coming back and I have no idea what to do about it."

Daniel had been ready to throw him out but it's hard not to respond to the minute flashes of consternation across Armand's face as attempts to contain his frustration.

“What did you find in the post office box?” Armand asks. He sounds a bit desperate.

“That? Oh, nothing yet. It’s just a bill and an address. Hang on, I'll show you.”

Daniel disappears into his storage closet and comes back with the yellowed slip of paper. 

"I don't know if this has anything to do with us, but it has nothing to do with me. Might be worth a—" 

Armand grabs the bill off him and examines it. "Look," he says. At the bottom there's a faded signature, barely visible: Samuel Beckett.

"That's Sam Barclay's handwriting," Armand says. 

Chapter Text

Armand insists on leaving for Fishkill immediately.

“We will take my car; I am not getting on your bike,” he says.  

Daniel is preparing to deliver a devastating counterpoint about cutting through traffic when his phone starts to buzz. He glances at it. Fuck.

“I gotta take this. Hey, Alice.” He shoos Armand, who looks briefly outraged, away to the other side of the room.  

“You need to leave the girls alone,” Alice says.

“'Hi Daniel, how’re things?'” he says flippantly, shifting into combat-mode so fast they may as well have been back in the death throes of their relationship. “‘Oh, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.'”

“And why would I do that? I haven't been legally required to give a shit since May 21st 1995.”

“Aww. You remember the date.” 

“Happiest day of my life,” Alice retorts. “I'm going to keep this short: stop sending money to the girls.”

Daniel frowns. “There are no strings,” he says. “I get that they don't want to speak to me, but—”

“There are always strings.” Her tone, always cool with him, freezes over entirely. “Strings, morsels of attention, disappointment. That’s how it goes, right? That's what you do. They don't appreciate being manipulated. I don't appreciate having to speak to you on their behalf. So stop.”

Daniel runs a hand through his hair. "Alice. Alice, listen. I know I can't make up for years of shit, but I care about them.” He hears her snort at that. “I want their lives to be easier. I couldn't manage it when I was there; this is all I’ve got." 

"Hmm," Alice says. "I know you're sick and, well, bad luck I guess, but you don't get a pass. Even supposing this isn't a deluded fantasy that you might, actually, not fuck up this time, they won't change their minds. Save the money for your meds." 

"I don't need the money." Daniel starts to pace back and forth across the room, thinking of a way round this. "What if you take it and—"

"What?" Alice says. "I know your brain's fried, but you can't have missed that I don't want anything to do with you."

"You won't," Daniel says quickly. "We'll do it through lawyers. Look," he says, a little desperate. "If the money’s yours then maybe they’ll accept it." 

On the other end of the line Alice hums quietly as she mulls things over. If he knows her at all, she’ll be searching Parkinson’s and life expectancy and calculating how long she’ll have to entertain this.

"Okay," she says slowly. "But if you push your luck then that's it." 

"I won't." Daniel says. Another thought strikes him: "Hey, did you ever rent a post office box in Fishkill when we were together?" 

"Why the fuck would I do that?" Alice says and ends the call. 
 
Daniel is quiet for a few minutes. As much as he likes to believe his own hype when it comes to not caring about people’s opinions, it's a special kind of humiliating having Alice shine a light on his most catastrophic failures with Armand right there to witness it. Fast on the heels of that is shame at how the first thing he feels now his family have washed their hands of him is not regret, but relief at how convenient this is for his immortal life. Not the painful, protracted leave-taking that Louis went through. They’re so desperate to be rid of him they don’t even want his money. The realisation slashes at what humanity he has left.  

”What?” he says to Armand who is still lurking at the other side of the room. “Human affairs too messy for you?” 

Armand doesn’t reply, just stands there, arms folded across his body, long fingers tapping away at his elbows. It makes him irrationally angry. 

"Get the fuck out of here," Daniel snarls. 

Armand has no intention of leaving. Instead he withdraws to the kitchen and entertains himself by looking through the baffling array of implements and devices he finds there, making up stories in his head about how Daniel might have used them.

Anguish had been pouring from Daniel as he paced the apartment. Armand had attempted to melt into the background but ended up standing awkwardly against a bookcase and fidgeting with his hands. Every time Daniel passed him he wanted to reach out and comfort him. He’d done it, once, but withdrawn his hand just as fast when Daniel whirled around and finally came to rest in front of a window, staring out of it blankly. 

From what he'd gathered in Dubai and the gossip Louis passed onto him behind closed doors, he knows that Daniel Molloy's family life is as messy as his autobiography. He is wrong though: this human affair of Daniel's is not too messy for him. It is simply that he doesn’t understand why or to what extent Daniel cares about his estranged family, having no reliable experience of mortal relationships. Certainly not with children. 

As for fraught separations, losing Louis has been - is - painful enough to know that it isn't something he cares to repeat. And there was Marius. Losing his maker had devastated him in ways that endure in one form or another to this day. That had been centuries. What was thirty years for a very recently ex-mortal? 1995, wasn't it? Something about the date bothers him.

"I told you to go," Daniel says when Armand returns, having given him quite enough time to compose himself. He is still standing by the window.

"I told you we were going out," Armand says. "Come on." 

Daniel grunts in what Armand takes as agreement. 

"You divorced in Staten Island," Armand says. He ignores the chimes of multiple sensors as he backs his Maserati out of a challenging parking spot. "Was it on the date your ex-wife mentioned?" 

"Yeah," Daniel says. "May 21st 1995, 3:32 pm." Armand's jaw tightens. “I was nearly late,” he continues. “Hungover, hoping against hope that we might still work something out. We didn't. Afterwards, I got the ferry back to Manhattan. The weirdest thing was—" 

"Can you recall what time?" Armand asks, changing lanes. 

"Uh," Daniel screws his forehead up in thought. "It would have been just after four. I was glad to get the fuck out. I'd been agitated all day: probably the hangover. But, yeah, the weird thing I was going to tell you about. Once I got on there all that fell away: the anxiety, the nerves, even the headache. I felt like everything was going to be okay." He laughs. "It wasn't, but it kind of got me out of a hole at the time." 

"And you're sure of the time?"

"Why the sudden interest? You want to go sightseeing?"

"Hardly. I was in New York on that day. Staten Island, to be exact. There were rumours of a new coven setting up there. I wanted to evaluate the threat while it was daylight." He scoffs at the memory. "They were absolutely ridiculous." 

"So we were both there." 

Armand glances at Daniel's profile, his skin is mesmerising, almost gleaming, reflecting the dancing, kaleidoscopic lights of the city. He only just remembers to check his rear-view mirror before merging onto a busy road.

"Yes. I had been walking near the courthouse, wandering around after I’d left the coven. I had planned to stay longer and kill some time before Louis woke. Instead, I found myself at the ferry terminal just before four." 

"You would have recognised me if we were both on there," Daniel points out. "You knew me from Divisadero." 

"I didn’t see you. I walked around the perimeter of the boat several times." He smiles. "I helped some tourists with their cameras when we passed the Statue of Liberty. When we docked, I saw a dark-haired man shoot off ahead of the others. There was something about him that made me want to follow but I got caught in another crowd of sightseers."

"Tell me about Boston," Daniel says. "It sounds like both those times we were circling each other." 

"What were you doing there?"

"I got there the evening of the robbery. I was booked to interview a cult leader the next day. His people put me up in the Copley, all expenses paid. I was enjoying the fuck out of the suite but as soon as I went down to the restaurant I started to freak out. I went to walk it off. Found myself in an alleyway looking to score and I heard this eerie fucking laughter and whispering, then a screech of tyres. I guess that was the robbery." 

"Perhaps," Armand says. "I was there to authenticate a painting that was supposedly the work of Marius de Romanus. Louis was interested in buying it."

"Was it his?" 

“Yes. I was—" Armand presses his lips together, "—young when I posed for it. It may have been the first time.” He doesn’t add that he knows with certainty it was the first time he was donated. A sidelong look at Daniel suggests he doesn’t need to.

Armand drums his fingers on the steering wheel. "The owner refused to sell. We offered millions but she wouldn't budge."

"And?" 

"And nothing. Louis lost interest in the negotiations; that was that. The Rembrandt—" 

“— so you're telling me there was a painting of you — a child if I’m reading between the lines correctly — owned by someone else, kept in their private collection, and you were fine with that?” 

Armand puts his foot down and swerves in front of a lorry.

"Not exactly," he says. 

"Couldn't you have just taken it?" 

Armand lets out a frustrated huff of breath. "It would have been a challenge. The owner was sufficiently well-protected and high-profile. I wanted to anyway. Louis forbade me and we argued. When I was wandering the city I heard the thoughts of the criminals who intended to rob the museum. The rest you know." 

“And your painting? No way you took no for an answer. C’mon, we know your deference to Louis was just for show.” 

“Do we?" Armand says. "Are you naïve enough to think things were always black or white?"

Daniel is silent for a moment. "No, I don't think that," he says. Then: "What happened to the painting?"

Armand's lip curls. "The owner was offered some terrible financial advice. She found herself in difficulties and, several years later, she contacted us ready to sell. Louis acquired it for me then."

"Good," Daniel says.

It's comically easy to break in, mostly due to the broken window-lock on the second floor. Armand leaves Daniel to disable the cameras. Being recognised is not something that concerns him, but if Daniel insists on a media presence and committing crime he needs to cover his tracks. 

The box itself yields very little: a couple of play manuscripts and a flyer for a collection of Samuel Beckett papers and ephemera held in a university just outside London. 

"What's this?" Daniel asks, turning the flyer over to reveal a string of letters and numbers. 

"It's an archive box location," Armand says. 

"Uh huh," Daniel says. He walks into an adjacent office and Armand hears filing cabinets being forced open, rifled through then slammed shut. "Sam fucking with us, you think?" 

Armand does think. This has the hallmarks of being played with. He had limited patience for Sam's games in Paris and he has even less now. Anger, which had been growing since Daniel had started needling him in the car, starts to bubble closer to the surface.

I was young.

That's when his temper had started to fray. Armand is well aware, has been for years longer than Daniel has been on earth, that he had been young, but it is something he sidesteps on instinct. It had been an off-the-cuff decision to say the words out loud, to try them on and see how they felt. And while they were...factually correct, claiming them as true felt like he was teetering on the edge of something catastrophic. Still, he had chosen to put himself in the line of fire, had he not? Invited Daniel's pointed comments about ownership and property and having part of him held hostage.

And you were fine with that?

No, he was not fine with that. And now it seems that Sam Barclay has carved a piece of his life out for himself too. Without warning, anger and bewilderment and fear boil over.

"Fucking Sam," Armand says, slamming his hand against a locker so hard the metal warps. Outside, the streetlights flicker on and off. 

"So, Talamasca?" Daniel says, popping his head back in. "I fucking knew they were holding out on me. Sam was their man in—"

"Yes, yes. We know that," Armand snaps.

"Though," Daniel says, "assuming there’s something there worth looking at, he’s gone to a lot of trouble not to stash whatever the fuck it is in one of their Motherhouses. Can we be sure he's their man now?"

"Can we be sure that's an improvement?" 

"What now?" Daniel says. "London?"

Armand pulls a disgusted face. "I have not set foot there since a particularly unpleasant interaction with the coven in 2018." 

"Aww," Daniel says, walking closer to the locker to inspect the damage. "Were they mean to you?" 

"They were extremely inhospitable. But the reason I don't want to go to England, which is damp, is because I do not appreciate being led around by the nose by a duplicitous, jumped-up playwright. Not to mention our progress to date has been such that I fully expect this to come to nothing." 

Daniel gives him a flat, unimpressed look. 

"That a yes or a no?" 

Armand doesn't dignify him with an answer. He stalks over to the open window, jumps out and stands beside his car, waiting for Daniel to catch up.

Even Daniel's offer to drive doesn't improve his mood much, though he does accept by way of tossing him the keys. The only thing that lightens his thoughts somewhat is that Daniel has rolled his shirtsleeves up to his elbows. Armand manages a brief look at Daniel's forearms flexing as he turns the wheel before his brain descends into white noise. 

“Do you think,” Armand starts when they are back in the comforting warmth of Daniel's apartment. He trails off. It’s something he had been turning over in his head before Daniel’s arms took his brain offline. “Do you think your blood might help?” 

Daniel turns and gives him a steady look. “You sure you want that kind of reaction from me?" he asks, the sides of his mouth turning up into a lazy smile. "I was there when Louis bit you in Dubai, remember? Not to mention when you turned me. That got a bit, well—” 

Armand remembers it vividly. It’s not clear to him whether Daniel sounds amused because he is trying to mock him or to hide his own discomfort. It flusters him anyway. 

"When Marius shared his blood with me I could see the things that were in his mind."

Daniel's face darkens. "It was just a thought," Armand mutters. 

"Nah," Daniel says. "Might be worth a shot. I’m a big boy, and let's be honest, most of what I saw across the dining room table was a performance. I think I can handle you." He pats the seat on the couch next to him. "Hungry?"

“I could eat.” Armand suspects his attempt at sounding casual falls flat. Now the prospect of tasting Daniel's blood is real, every thought falls away except for one: he's famished. He sits and reaches for Daniel’s hand, interlinks their fingers and turns his wrist up. 

“No, no, no. We both know you’re a neck man,” Daniel says. Keeping hold of Armand's hand he loosens the first few buttons of his shirt. 

“You’re ridiculous,” Armand says, half to himself. He opens his mouth very slightly to show the lengthening tips of his fangs, enjoying how Daniel's eyes widen. "That shut you up," he says. 

"Yeah?" There's a challenge in Daniel's voice. Keeping eye contact, he lifts Armand's hand and places it on his throat. Taking hold of Armand’s index finger, he draws the nail slowly and deeply over the location of his jugular vein until his neck is dripping with blood. 

That’s all it takes. Armand springs forward and sinks his fangs into Daniel's neck. 

The blood flows into him, he clutches at Daniel's fingers, subtle twitches wracking his body. Memory does not do it justice. It's unlike the perfect sustenance of mortal blood. This is richer, lighter, layered with something only vampires can share. He drinks, delicately at first, stopping now and again to run his lips over the topography of Daniel's neck, delighting in the soft noises that Daniel attempts to stifle as he responds to Armand's mouth and tongue moving over torn-open flesh. With every mouthful, Armand feels himself grow warmer and heavier with quietly awoken desire. The hunger grows, bringing to the surface the many starvations he has ignored for the last few years.

It's so good. 

And what he feels through Daniel's blood is sharper, different from the imprecise reassurance of their bond. He sees himself from Daniel's perspective. Learns that when Daniel thinks of him it's always with the same question: why, why, why? He wants to understand. He wants to know. He finds him beautiful. Armand smiles, cool lips still fastened against his neck. A common-place reaction, elevated by virtue of Daniel being the one who finds him so.

Daniel's arm slides across his back as he groans and pulls him closer. Armand catches another glimpse of himself as Daniel saw him earlier: leaning against his car, tapping his nails impatiently against the paintwork. There's a dull, dragging sensation that he realises is what Daniel is feeling: Armand pulling the blood from his veins. 

He fights the urge to rip his throat apart. With considerable regret, he pulls his fangs out of Daniel's neck. 

"Think of something I can't remember," Armand breathes into his skin and feels a dizzying stab of need as Daniel shivers against him. "What about the library?"

"Look at you skipping straight to the X-rated bits," Daniel gasps and there must be something in the pink elephant paradox because then he's seeing himself through Daniel’s eyes, reaching forward to stroke heated skin as he undresses Daniel in a Midtown hotel room. His pupils are blown almost entirely black as he fists Daniel's hair, drawing them into a brutal, frenzied kiss. He feels the pinpricks of nails piercing and scraping down Daniel's back. Then Daniel turns to face the wall, resting his head on his arms, and all he can see is fingers digging into the wallpaper as Daniel trembles at the sensation of lips against skin, lapping at the blood he has drawn.

Daniel's thoughts skitter forward and he's kneeling on the bed, the pressure of Armand's arm across his chest, holding him up as if he weighs no more than a rag-doll. He's being fucked slowly, relentlessly, and all the while, the sound of his own voice in Daniel's head saying: Tell me it's not just the drugs and Tell me you want this anyway and, with vulnerability he had not known he had ever felt safe enough to express: Say it's me you need. 

Daniel turns his head to one side, whispers: "It's you. It's you. Just don't stop, please" and Armand meets his lips with a messy, open-mouthed kiss, feeding Daniel the blood he'd been craving since Pompeii. The sounds from Daniel turn helpless, wounded almost, as he tries to push back against Armand, his only thought to take as much of him into himself in any way he can.

Back in the present, they collapse sideways onto the couch, Armand whispering a protest when Daniel's thoughts shift away, the movement of his mind and his blood quick and haphazard and mesmeric. It's the next night: the hotel, a club, dancing skin-to-skin with a blonde woman in silver hot pants. He swerves away and they're in Budapest, walking an unfamiliar path alongside the Danube in the moonlight. 

"Why don't you want to think of her?" Armand says coming up for breath. "Did you and she...?" He wraps a leg over Daniel's hip to pull him closer and the motion of it has them rolling off the couch and onto the floor. Daniel lies on his back, Armand straddling him and for long seconds all they can do is stare at one another. 

"Fuck," Daniel says. "Turns out I can't handle you at all." He draws Armand down to press their foreheads together then guides him back to his blood. Armand mouths against his neck and Daniel’s thoughts race forward again: unfamiliar faces, clubs, dancing, a man walking towards a bed, Daniel's feet just in sight. Armand glimpses himself standing by the window, face mostly shadows, cigarette in hand. He's dressed head to toe in rich plum, high-waisted trousers and a ruffled shirt undone to the waist. 

Something in his brain twists and tugs. An ice pick pain. He hears himself cry out. Beneath him Daniel slumps. 

He eases his fangs out of Daniel's neck, his head ringing, and moves to kneel beside him. He opens a vein in his wrist and presses it against Daniel's mouth. 

"I took too much.”

Daniel blinks at him, dazed and affectionate. He pushes himself up to lean against the side of the couch. “It's okay. I don't mind you having it."

What a strange thing to say, Armand thinks. He looks down to where their fingers are still interlaced, ice over ice. On impulse he lifts Daniel's fingers to his mouth to kiss them.

"Thank you," he says and another impulse has him crawling into Daniel's lap. 

Daniel's eyes soften. He brushes his lips over Armand's knuckles. The lamplight illuminates Daniel's hair. The amber of his eyes have taken on an other-worldly glow.  

"Armand," Daniel whispers. He's so close. His lips are so close. Brushing, nearly. The smell of his blood is everywhere. He can feel his own mouth dripping with it. He slides his fingers up the back of Daniel's neck and into his hair. He tilts his head to one side and presses his bloodied mouth to Daniel's. 

The kiss they share is so very gentle. Not like the whirlwind Daniel had written about. Not like the feral visions in his blood. Daniel's lips are soft, but the softness is deceptive. He expects the ache that has been growing in the pit of his stomach to subside. It intensifies, sharpening to a knife edge, but instead of tearing at him, he finds he can float on the sensation without being hurt. 

Armand likes this. He likes this. 

“Come here.” Daniel hands runs over Armand’s lower back and he arches into it. Fighting the urge to grind down, he leans forward and deepens the kiss.

It takes years of carefully honed restraint for Armand not to lose control just from that. A hair trigger and unfeasibly short refractory period has been both plague and blessing. It had amused Marius, who found many ways to put it to use. Santino had sensed it in him and punished him for it. Louis had enjoyed the options it offered. At the very least he expects Daniel to make fun of him. He’s already preparing a biting reply but what he finds, when they break apart, is that Daniel is as affected as he is.

”Slow down?” he says. Armand nods and melts into him gratefully. 

The hunger of earlier is still present but it doesn't seem to matter anymore. It doesn't really need to go anywhere. Armand is discovering, through lazy exchanges of blood interspersed by slow, languid kisses, that he can feel craving and desire and satiety at the same time. Perhaps because Daniel offers his blood generously and without condition it quells the bone-deep fear of how easily the things he wants can be taken away. He doesn't know. Right now, he doesn't care. 

The last thing he sees in the blood, a lazy swipe of his tongue, from where his fingernails have grazed the centre of Daniel's chest, is an image of himself lying back gracefully in Daniel's arms, perfectly content, as they drift along a river on a small, blue rowing boat. The ache inside of him starts to subside. 

Later, as they are walking through the neighbourhood, Armand says: "I'm not actually - how did you put it? - a neck man." 

Daniel laughs softly, and bumps his shoulder. "My sources disagree. That's the third out of three times you've gone for my neck." 

Armand ducks his head. "You have a nice neck." 

After Daniel has fed they walk to Brooklyn Bridge and climb up to sit at the top of one of the suspension towers. It's a full moon tonight. Despite the constant, noisy stream of life below Armand can still feel fragments of the peace and contentment of earlier. At least until Daniel starts climbing on the cables.

"What are you doing?" Armand says. Despite his best efforts at remaining serious, there's something about Daniel's impulsiveness that he likes. 

"Let me have my Lost Boys moment," Daniel says, swinging on one arm. Then, seeing Armand's confusion: "Oh come on, don't tell me you haven't seen it?" 

"You make it sound like I missed some seminal cinematic moment." 

"You loved the movies, especially ones with special effects. Ghostbusters. Bladerunner. Time Bandits. You couldn't get enough of them. Get down here."

Armand decides to indulge him. He climbs down and hangs off a cable with as much dignity as he can muster. "I've seen the last one, I think. Was it with you?" 

"Yeah," Daniel says, softly. "We saw that a few times." He nudges Armand with his foot. "But you missed Kiefer Sutherland in all his teeth gnashing glory? Armand. Things really turned to shit after you dumped me, huh?" 

"I saw 24." 

That's enough for Daniel to haul himself and Armand back onto the tower. 

"Shit," Daniel says, walking to the edge. "That's a long way." 

Armand comes to join him and looks down, the familiar call of the void remarkable only in that on this occasion it is subdued. He likes how this feels, standing next to Daniel, their shoulders lightly brushing. As to whether Daniel wants a reminder of the lines they had crossed earlier is another question entirely. Slowly, so he can retreat the instant he detects any distaste, he rests his head on Daniel’s shoulder.

Daniel lets out a surprised huff of breath. He doesn’t pull away. A few seconds later, he wraps his arm around Armand’s shoulder. Ostensibly it's an everyday gesture, mundane except for the fact that no one has done this for him for a very long time. 

“Do you trust me?” Armand asks, gesturing towards the ground.  

“I trust you to show off,” Daniel says. "But - and for the record you walked straight into this - no, not in general."

“Daniel." 

Daniel laughs. Armand turns his head, ready to glare at him, but he looks giddy, like he’s having fun. Even though currently it might be at his expense, he doesn’t mind too much.

“So what you gonna do? Cloud-gift me down there?” Daniel asks.

“You said it was a long way.”

“Seriously?" A smile spreads across Daniel's face. "Hey—” he says when Armand turns and places his hands on his waist, and takes a small step backwards towards the edge.

Armand presses a brief kiss to his lips, slides his hands up Daniel's back to draw him closer and steps back into the air.

It takes a while for Daniel to stop death-gripping the backs of his arms as they float upwards, but it’s worth the discomfort and damage to his clothing when the curses that are delivered at high volume directly into his ear turn to exclamations of excitement and awe once he has relaxed enough to look around. It's even better when he feels the press of Daniel's mouth, with just a hint of fangs, curving into a smile against his neck.

Back in Daniel's apartment, Armand pulls his phone out to verify a couple of things while Daniel throws a blanket over the bloodstained couch and fiddles around with the TV. It feels odd that they are sitting apart from one another given how the night has gone, and perhaps Daniel thinks the same thing too as he shifts around until he finds a position he likes, lying lengthways with his head in Armand's lap while the opening credits of The Lost Boys play. 

”Is this okay?” Daniel asks as if Armand’s fingers aren’t already brushing through his curls. “I’d make up some bullshit about being uncomfortable but—”

“No more mortal aches and pains to blame? I suppose you can stay.” Armand says so magnanimously that Daniel nips the finger that is stroking over his jaw. 

“Watch the film,” Daniel says.

Daniel looks up. He hates to ruin one of the better nights he’s had, but, well, the thought is in his head now. 

"So,” he says. “You turned me to get Louis back. Why me? And don’t give me any of the partial to you bullshit. Damek and Real Rashid were right there and, you know, actually likely to survive the process. I was in such bad shape I’m pretty sure you almost killed me for real."

"I lost control. I'm not sure I can explain,” Armand says. Daniel suspects the length of time he takes to reply is carefully calculated to convey how seriously he's considering the question, but his vampire eyes detect the near imperceptible tremors crossing his face, the tightness around his mouth, his darting eyes. 

"Try again," Daniel says. "You’re the most in control person I’ve ever met." 

"I was pushed to my limit." 

"I can wait," Daniel says, "until you give me an honest answer." 

"Fine, I was going to kill you. I was going to toy with you. Wave the idea of eternal life around until you wanted it, and then drain you. That was going to be my revenge. But when I tasted your blood I didn’t want your story to end.” 

As Armand talks, he absently scratches the line of Daniel's jaw. Daniel leans into it and almost abandons his line of questioning.

“Really,” Daniel says flatly, because he fucking knows there’s more. “And?” 

Armand glares at him. “And,” he says. “I knew turning you would punish Louis. It might tempt him back when he realized how utterly unfit he was to take care of a fledgling. Then after enough time had elapsed I would forgive him and he would discard you. I might kill you. Then he and I would carry on as we were.” 

“Well,” Daniel says. “That’s fucked up enough to sound like something you’d do. That the truth?” 

“More or less.”

Later, just before the sky is just about to lighten Armand stirs and prepares to leave. 

"London, then?" Daniel says, helping him on with his coat. His eyeliner has smudged, but it looks so charming that Daniel can’t bring himself to tell him. 

Armand nods unenthusiastically. "London."  

Chapter Text

It's almost dawn by the time they reach Central London. Daniel is nearly dead on his feet and only vaguely aware of being hustled through a sequence of airy rooms, then down a corridor with warm, subdued lighting and into a bedroom to slip under cool sheets before sleep takes him. The sun sets so early in winter that when it's time to rise it's as if he's barely rested. 

"Ugh. Is this how revenants feel all the time?" He staggers out from the pitch-darkness into an enormous living space, dominated by a wide, single-pane window and an incredible view across the city. "Oh, nice. That window coated?" 

Armand looks up. He's lounging on a sofa that stretches most of the way across the room. "Unfortunately not," he says. "Quite challenging to come by that particular adaptation on short notice." 

"Yeah, I guess vampire-proof isn't a standard Air BnB category." He knows full-well that Armand would have used some exclusive, bespoke service, but it’s worth it to see the judgemental nose-wrinkle before he realises that he's being fucked with.

Trying to rub some life into his face, he comes over and sits alongside Armand, who pours him a glass of blood and shuffles closer. He smells amazing: some sort of citrussy blend of bergamot and neroli. Still sleepy, Daniel inhales and closes his eyes.

"Are you sniffing me?" Armand asks. Daniel's eyes snap open to see Armand regarding him with an amused sort of curiosity.

"Can't help it." he grins and, since he's already busted, takes an exaggeratedly deep breath through his nose. He's considering pushing his luck to the absolute limit and burying his entire face in Armand's neck but before he can get carried away his eyes catch on the wall-clock: 4:30 PM. He needs to get going. 

Daniel leaves the apartment without Armand, who is apparently not the slightest bit interested in suburbia.

"I'm sure you can handle it," he'd said, barely looking up from whatever the fuck he was tapping away at on his iPad. It's hard not to take offence at the blatant dismissal and while he's had worse, it doesn't stop him from turning it over in his mind as he heads west of London. It’s not news that Armand runs hot and cold. Clearly that was cold and, honestly, he knows better than to expect special - or even, let's be honest, considerate - treatment despite how things are between them. Still, he'd been kind of hoping...

Pull yourself together, he tells himself. He knows very well that Armand will engage in a bit of casual manipulation to get what he wants, and he wants to recover his memories very much. What Daniel understands better now is that this does not preclude Armand having a whole host of other motivations alongside the plotting and strategizing that he presumably does on a moment-by-moment basis. That's just what he's like and Daniel can't say he'd have him any other way. Although, it would be nice to know whether the blood and the making out and the moonlight walk that felt like he was skirting the edge of falling for him a-fucking-gain was just to keep him around while he served a purpose. 

He makes a frustrated noise and shouts at his phone to message Marceline with his ETA for their drinks date. She works in the university archives, having transitioned to academia in the early 2010s. He knows her from her public health work way back; she'd helped him out with HIV infection rates when he had been in dire need of data. 

It turns out that the main reason she's so readily agreed to meet, and at such short notice, is that she’s recently finished his latest book. Like most of his readership, she falls somewhere between extreme skepticism at Daniel's claims that vampires are real and excitement at the possibility that they might just be. They sit in a student bar and she proceeds to ply him with questions while he plies her with drinks, all the while sipping unenthusiastically at a bottom shelf whisky that would probably still taste like dirt even if he were mortal. 

"So what's this Louis like?" she asks, the balance having tipped in favor of Daniel not being entirely full of shit. "Is he doing okay now? Did he get back with the French guy?" 

"He has his moments,” Daniel says. “He’s doing better now, I think. As for the other guy, it's complicated." 

"Isn't it always?" she says. She gives his sunglasses a curious stare: “Is it too bright? We can move if you want.”

"Eye infection," Daniel says and makes a big show of going to find a mirror to put in drops. 

"What happened to the boyfriend - Rashid was it?" she asks, already most of the way through her double vodka tonic. 

"It’s Armand," Daniel says, feeling his face soften and his belly tighten when he says his name. "I still see him around." 

“Weird you keep in touch after the interview’s done,” she says. “Is that normal?” 

Daniel feels like he should refute that but the noise in the bar is growing to a deafening roar and his vampire hearing, always acute, is driving him into uncharted levels of distraction. Perhaps the flight or the time difference has him so oversensitive. He flinches as his phone buzzes, adding to the cacophony and a message appears on the screen. 

Going to see what Soho has to offer. Don't forget about the window. 

He smiles despite himself. "You work on the Beckett collection, right?" he says. "Is there much in there about his time in post-war Paris?" 

Marceline nods enthusiastically and starts talking. Now she’s a few drinks down her mind is wide open and she insists on showing him the collection after hours without Daniel having to use a single vampiric gift to prod her in the right direction. 

"Here you go," she says from half-way up a ladder a little while later and hands him a box of correspondence from the early 1950s. Their entry into the archive building had been somewhat shambolic, narrowly avoiding security only to nearly fall at the last hurdle when she had been unable to locate her pass. Daniel had been contemplating another break-in when she triumphantly fished it out of her jeans back pocket. 

With Marceline up the ladder, Daniel gets a feel for the place and manages to locate the small box Sam has hidden amongst the paraphernalia of a life he drifted in and out of. He shoves it under one arm. 

On their way out, she frowns and gives him an unsteady look. "Did you have that with you all night?" she asks, gesturing at the box. 

"Sure," Daniel says, applying the lightest suggestion to her mind. "I had it in the bar, remember?" 

"Guess you did," she replies and carries on out of the building. 

With Daniel out of the way, Armand waits until late evening before heading out.

Louis may have left Sam Barclay alive because he had decided that time heals, but the reason he remained that way is entirely due to the fact that he kept his mouth shut about the trial and buried the annotated script. As far as Armand is concerned, he has been living on borrowed time since the interview in Dubai.

The club where he is DJing is as one might expect. Sweaty, euphoric and full of temporary connections.

After the visions in the blood he almost regrets coming alone. The second-hand sense memory of dancing, moving in sync with a crowd alongside a deeper connection to one’s partner is still fresh in his brain. He moves through the crowd to get a better view of Sam and stops, dead still, in the middle of the dancers, his mind returning to Daniel’s recollection of bright lights, deafening music, gliding close together then apart to scan the sea of bodies on the dance floor, his voice in Daniel’s head.

Pick another.  

For an instant a drilling pain reverberates inside his skull. He blinks and rubs at his forehead, almost losing his footing in the crush of bodies that surround him. 

Sam finishes his set and hands off to the next act. When he leaves the stage, Armand follows him to a back room and waits silently until he has removed his headgear. 

“Hello, Sam," he says. The door clicks shut behind him. 

"Maître!" Sam turns and backs into several chairs, knocking them over in an attempt to get away from him. 

"Not since Paris," Armand says. He looks around the dingy room. What a step down. "I'd say you were doing well for yourself but..." He runs a finger over the foldout table and examines the grime that has collected under his fingernail. 

"Why are you here?" Sam says. 

"What the fuck is this?" Armand hands the flyer to him. He notes that this is the second time he's sworn in as many days. He blames Daniel.  

"Ah." Sam picks up one of the chairs and sits heavily. "You found it then." 

"Currently Daniel Molloy is following this irritating breadcrumb trail with patience I do not possess. I want an explanation." 

Sam's eyes dart around the room. "I wanted to keep the Dresden business away from the Talamasca. It's just a few things from when you and Molloy — in the eighties—" he frowns “—are you back together?” Armand kicks the chair from under him and he goes sprawling across the floor. His fangs descend and he hisses. "Shit, sorry," he mumbles, covering his mouth. "Instinct, y'know." 

"I don't want to know what's in the fucking box, Sam. I want to know why it's there and what you were doing with it in the first place. You will tell me. Now."  

“It was when you came to see me. Eighty-eight I think,” he says shakily from where he’s backed himself into the corner of the room. “I’d never seen you so distraught. And I’d seen the state of you after that companion business with Louis - uh - ” he trails off as Armand’s expression freezes. 

”You threatened me with fire, burial, decapitation: the usual. You were after the services of a witch, but not Talamasca. I put the word out and one of the Dresden coven came forward.” 

“Hmm.” Armand casts his mind back to his fractured memories of late eighties Dresden. “And the surveillance while I was there?” 

"I needed a cover story," Sam said. "A few photos. I had to give them something. The witch insisted meeting in an abandoned office block. Really fucking creepy. You sent me back to your hotel while you spoke to her. Except—” Sam looks faintly nauseated, “—I didn’t hear from you for a couple of nights. Couldn’t track you down for shit. So I went back and I don’t know what had gone on but it was carnage.”

”You think I killed her?” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “C’mon. On top of everything else she’d been drained. Are you seriously trying to pin that on someone else? I cleaned the place up - you're welcome by the way - got rid of the body and took the things you'd left next to her.” 

“And you didn’t think to return them? Why take them and hide them in England?”

“You disappeared! Do you think I'd have gone looking for you after that? You know the state you left that place in.”

Armand really doesn't. “Yet you kept my things," he says. "Yet you were happy to keep an eye on me from a distance. You'd been doing it for a while: you seem to know an awful lot about Louis and I, Daniel and I.”

”Key point: from a distance. You came looking for me, remember? And yeah, I was a bit invested in what you had going on with the journo. You know I never liked Louis de Pointe du Lac, and after what he did to us in Paris...well." He gives Armand a defiant look. "It was nice to see you crack a smile now and again.” 

"Hmm." Armand's mouth stretches into a humorless smile. “Save the emotional waffle for your plays. I want an explanation.”

Sam looks outraged. "You cannot reduce the human condition to emotional waffle. What I make is art—" 

"Sam."

"You know what? Fine. I didn't think it was their business. They monitor us, but they had enough on you already. What were they getting out of this?" 

"What were you getting out of it?" Armand wonders, recalling that Sam had liked to watch almost as much as Santiago.

"I'm an old romantic?" he ventures unconvincingly. "As shit scared of you as I was - am -” he amends when Armand raises an eyebrow, “those things looked kind of sentimental. The Talamasca were already all over your affair." He shrugs. "It didn’t feel right. I guess I still had some loyalty to the old troupe." 

"Did you?" Armand says. "Shame you didn't have more of it all the years you were passing information to them."

”Of course, you were already back with Du Lac by then,” Sam says, with the gall to sound disappointed. “They knew all about that. They’ve got you and him and Molloy all filed away in the San Francisco Motherhouse. I managed to keep them away from the Dresden business.” 

Armand nods. "I would like to see these files," he says. "You will show me." 

"I can't go chasing off at a moments notice," Sam says. "I've got gigs all over Europe." 

"Cancel them," Armand says. "Be there in two day's time."    

"You don't understand," Sam says. "The Motherhouse will be crawling with agents. You don't want to fuck with them. The answer is no."  

"No?" says Armand. "Really. No? When I could burn you up with a single thought." He bares his teeth. "I might still do it if your claims come to nothing. I might do it anyway,” he says, feeling Sam’s trembling intensify as he leans forward and whispers in his ear, “because I am incredibly angry with you."

"They'll kill us both!"

Armand is content for Sam to believe that. One thing he is fairly certain of is that neither Sam nor the Talamasca have close to an understanding of his power. Sam is, after all, still under the impression that he ceded to Santiago’s power grab because he had no other choice. And while it's true that if the coven had taken him by surprise they might have succeeded as Santino's coven had, the instant Armand was able to anticipate an attack he was in no real danger. He could have turned that Paris audience against the trial jurors with ease. He could, with minimal planning, have overpowered Santiago and the others. He could have kept Louis in that apartment forever and made him like it. 

"You will be in San Francisco," he says to Sam. “Or the next donation your university collection receives will be a box of ashes." 

Daniel returns just before 2 AM to find the suite empty.

He puts the box to one side, goes to the refrigerator to grab a pouch of blood and tries to get his head around the last few days. 

Sharing his blood hadn’t restored any memories, though he certainly wasn't complaining about how things had panned out. What he can't fathom is whether Armand still thinks of him largely as an inconvenient fledging or has started to hold him in slightly higher regard. It's also increasingly difficult to separate what he feels about Armand now from how things had been in the past, when Armand had unguardedly given him his entire heart and insisted on the same in return. But this is not the Armand of the past. He needs to remember that. 

Daniel goes out onto the balcony and lights a cigarette. This Armand is different, sure. Their emotional connection is not the same. He isn't interested in sharing his life, but in contrast to before he is willing to share more of his story. Previously it was simply not up for discussion and if Daniel pushed, Armand made sure he paid for it in one way or other.

When he asked for Daniel's blood he played it off as flirting, a dare, almost, and while that had definitely been happening too, the question had been exposing but yet he still asked. And that curious moment when he’d flinched in pain just before he took too much blood? It had been overshadowed by Daniel's own reaction and, well, things had moved on pretty quickly from then, but now he has the space to think about it he's pretty sure it happened when his thoughts had stumbled onto something he didn't want to think about. Perhaps it was his discomfort that caused Armand pain. Perhaps they were more connected than he thought. He should ask him about that. 

He's just given into to temptation and taken a few items out of the box when Armand returns, looking well-fed and incredibly pleased with himself.

The look he gives Daniel has him on his feet immediately. In his haste to get to the other side of the room he shoves everything back in the box, feeling a few cards and photos slide in between the glued-together cardboard sides. 

"Useful trip?" Armand asks, as Daniel helps him out of his long overcoat and pulls him into an embrace. 

"We'll find out," Daniel says, running his hands up and down Armand's back while he feels hands tangle in his hair. He's in no hurry to move. "Where were you?" he asks. He buries his head in Armand's soft curls. He can smell the sweat of other people all over him. His skin is warmer than usual; maybe he has their blood in him as well. Stale cigarette smoke, unfamiliar perfume and body wash. He feels a flare of jealousy he doesn't know what to do with.  

"Just a club," Armand breathes against Daniel's neck. "Not really my thing." 

Reluctantly they separate and Daniel tips out the contents of the box onto the coffee table. All of it means something, to him at least: playbills from dozens of performances they’d attended, plane tickets, rail tickets, photographs, a necklace that Daniel didn’t realise he missed until he saw it again. On and on. Snapshots of a life. 

Armand's fingers drift over a knitted cap and a pair of ratty, blood-red, fingerless gloves.

"Those were yours," Daniel says. He thinks back to a bitterly cold Spring day. He'd been freezing but Armand...he got that vampires weren't warm like mortals but his fingers were almost painful to touch. Even his own hands did nothing to warm them. When he'd seen the hat and gloves in the window of a thrift store he hadn't even thought about it, just bought them.

Armand had opened the package and stared at them. "This is very sweet, but the cold can't actually harm me," he said, pulling the thoughts out of Daniel's head. His long fingers picked tentatively at the gloves before slipping them on. 

"I know," Daniel said. "I just thought it might feel better." He looked away, embarrassed at the pointless gift, and searched around him his pocket for cigarettes. When he looked up, Armand was staring at him with an intensity he hadn't seen before. 

"Thank you," he said and pulled the cap over his curls. 

"The next day you bought me an island," Daniel says. "You wore these all the time, for a while." He laughs. "Even in fucking Florida." 

Armand picks out the necklace and slides his finger over the orb-like locket in the center. 

“This contained my blood,” he says. “Did it belong to me?” 

By now, Daniel is prepared for Armand’s total lack of recollection, but he still gets his hopes up and the disappointment still hits hard. 

“You gave it to me. To protect me, you said. It disappeared after the last time I saw you. Guess you took it back.” 

Armand’s hand brushes his as he reaches for a grainy photograph of both of them. It a cloudy afternoon and they're standing in a Paris side-street, Armand in black Ray-Bans, his arm around Daniel’s shoulder. The date is written on the back in Armand’s hand: October 6th 1982. In the background is a building that, Daniel knows now, is on the site where the Theatre Des Vampires used to be.

“Who took this?” Armand asks, examining the photo.  

“Melanie from Boston. We got chatting to her and her boyfriend, Ben. We walked together along the Seine until you got insistent they took a photo.”  

“Doesn’t sound like me,” Armand says. He stares at the photo. “I almost don’t recognise myself.” 

“Yeah, you’re smiling for one,” Daniel says. The Armand of 1982 is pulling Daniel very close. It was Paris so it had been fucking freezing and Daniel had been shivering. The girl had captured a moment he’d turned over in his mind many times. They’re looking at one another, Armand isn’t just smiling, he’s beaming. Daniel remembers why. Just prior to the photo being taken, as they had wandered aimlessly with Melanie and Ben, Armand had slipped his hand into Daniel’s and, breaking with form, Daniel hadn’t pulled away. 

He remembered Armand going completely still, his cold fingers stroking tentatively at first then clasping more confidently as they walked. It had been a sweet moment. Bittersweet for Daniel who, having resisted how he felt for the best part of a decade, realized with a painful jolt that he wanted to grasp this moment and stretch it out into the sort of forever he'd never thought he and Armand could have. 

He wonders what the Armand of now would say if he told him that. He supposes it can’t be any worse than how he had reacted at the time.

He wonders what Armand would say if he told him that after they left Melanie and Ben he took Armand's hand into his again and they had practically ran all the way back to their hotel. He wonders if he still likes being fucked the same way, always brutally hard the first time, always with barely any prep, urging Daniel through broken moans to go deeper, to hold him tighter, to make him feel it. He wishes Armand could remember how, afterwards, they had revelled in the simple joy of Daniel inside Armand's body, making him come so many times they lost count, until his mortal body was almost beyond endurance, their hands still clasped together, Armand refusing, through tears, to let go. 

“We look happy,” Armand says, cutting through his thoughts. “Were we happy, then?” 

Daniel has to give him points for making this easy and asking the right question, because things had started to turn to shit shortly before they left. 

“Then we were, yeah,” he says and puts the photograph back in the box. 

Daniel's story about Paris compounds the growing ache that Armand feels around him. It's different from the emptiness he used to feel when they apart. It's a longing with no logic, a longing for something he's never had. It doesn't make sense because Daniel is here, now. Daniel, who he discovers new things about every time he sees him. Who he hasn't deemed worthy of pretence and polishing and shaping himself around but who, despite that, doesn't seem to mind. He hasn't anticipated any of this. He likes it, he thinks, but it is hard to be sure when the feeling exists alongside the unsettling fear that comes with unfamiliar territory. 

Daniel, who the time difference has affected, is currently dozing off, curled up on the oversized sofa in full view of the window. Without intervention he will be immobilised by the fast approaching rays of dawn. A lot of trust there. Misplaced, Armand thinks as an insidious, uninvited thought takes root in his brain. 

He strokes the side of Daniel's face. No response. 

He could leave him there to be devoured by the sun. It would solve a lot of problems. It would be as if none of this ever happened. All this longing and frustration and newness and desire and uncertainty. All gone. None of it would matter. He could continue on as he was. In time he would almost certainly be forgiven. Perhaps in time he could return to a life he knew. 

This compulsion to break things apart is nothing new. He has always found a perverse comfort in destroying what makes him uncertain, regardless of how else he might feel about it. 

He looks at Daniel. The call of the past is strong, but he finds it isn't strong enough any more.  

Daniel wakes up in complete darkness, cocooned in blankets. He's in his boxers. Interesting. 

"You fell asleep." Armand's voice comes out of nowhere. "Your body didn't know what time it was." 

As soon as the plane is in the air Armand pulls out his iPad and passes it to Daniel. 

"What's that?" Daniel says. 

"It's a list of the times we've nearly crossed paths since you forgot me in the mid-1980s," Armand says. "The first instance I can find is in 1990, in Boston. Then there’s your divorce. But I've looked at your interviews, the books, autobiography, online presence: there's more.

"When you cover your first divorce in your autobiography you talk specifically about a presence that follows you from the courthouse to the ferry. You write that it doesn't bother you and you stop feeling it around the time you arrive back in Manhattan. Before you say it, yes, it could be the hangover." 

"Are you comparing yourself to a hangover?" Daniel says.  

Armand clears his throat. "Palm Springs, 2003. You were there to interview a woman who had escaped the serial killer you were writing about." 

"What were you doing there?" 

Armand pauses, unsure how much he wants to share. Since the late 1980s there had been periods every few years when loneliness set in. He'd blamed it on difficulties with Louis even though by then things between them were pretty even. But despite the on-paper harmony of their life, a sadness bordering on grief continued to invade the peace they'd built together.

One evening after Louis had risen and Armand had assured him he'd fed, he’d kissed Louis on the cheek and left. He'd ended up in Palm Springs, boarding plane after plane after plane until he realised he wasn't going to outrun the feeling. He'd found a public park and waited for the blistering desert sunrise. Having only spent short periods in the sun he knew he could risk serious damage, if not death. As for which, he didn’t really have a preference. He closed his eyes as the sun skirted the horizon. 

"Business trip," he says, then adds: "I needed some space."

"That wasn't all, was it?" Daniel says. "Because something I didn't put in the book was that after the interview I stopped by a café and was just...fucking overwhelmed. The interview was pretty upbeat: she'd turned her life around. Was that you? Were you why I was sitting in a café at ten AM crying my eyes out?" 

Going against almost every instinct he has, he takes a risk. "I tried to go into the sun. Something changed my mind."

"Shit, Armand." He can feel Daniel looking at him. He keeps his eyes focused on his iPad. 

"July 2018,” he continues. “There are pictures on social media of you and a friend at an open air concert." 

"You and the mean London vampires?" Daniel asks. 

"Not just vampires," Armand says. "London is crawling with Talamasca, not to mention the other creatures that haunt the city streets and below."

Daniel elbows him gently. "Might have been helpful to know that before we landed there, Armand." 

Armand risks a sidelong, unrepentant glance at him. "Louis and I had been wandering for a while. We stopped in London that June and stayed for a month while we attempted to agree on a place to settle."

It is late afternoon on a blisteringly June afternoon in 2018. It will be hours until sundown so Armand leaves Louis sleeping in their Knightsbridge apartment and finds himself in Hyde Park, surrounded by people. He follows the crowds, hearing familiar music. It’s easy to get through the barriers. He blends in easily, already in eyeliner, dressed head to toe in black and finds a spot as the singer makes a quip about functioning better after sunset. Armand laughs along and then the band launch into a song about love and loss and trust and missed connections that almost brings him to his knees, but he doesn’t know why. He wants to scream but he doesn’t know why. He wants to reach out, but to whom he doesn’t know.

"That was just before my diagnosis," Daniel cuts in. "It starting to get hard to ignore the signs. I hadn’t wanted to go to the show, not really. The heat was almost unbearable, but Belinda was so excited about it. I ended up with heat stroke and had to go to hospital for fluids the next day. They ran some additional tests and that's how I found out. Fun times."  

Armand shuts his iPad. "There's more," he says. "I’m sure you get the picture." 

“So what do you think this is?" Daniel asks. "Were we were reaching out to each other all this time?” 

Armand considers his next words carefully. With Daniel sitting so close to him he's suddenly hyperaware of his own body and their proximity to one another. “It feels like more than coincidence that we were near each other when times were—"

"—an absolute shitshow—"

"—not good. It makes no sense, but the idea that we were there for one another, even though we didn't mean to be? I don’t mind it.” 

Daniel meets his eyes and places his hands over Armand’s. For a second the warm, mercurial feeling that Armand has come to recognise as Daniel’s affection floods their bond. 

“I’m glad we were there for each other, too.” 

I'm glad you're here now, Armand nearly says, the thought arriving without warning. It's easy to be with Daniel, who is unlike anyone he's chosen to spend time with before. Who does impulsive things like hang from the cables of bridges, who mixes coldness with compassion, curiosity with kindness.

Once back in New York, Daniel is so consumed by travel logistics for his next set of meetings with Lestat that it's easy for Armand simply not to mention he is travelling to the West Coast until he is already in the air and Daniel is somewhere en route to Texas.

He knew Sam was playing in London even before they left for England, but had decided against sharing that until he could assess the impact of whatever Sam had to say. As for San Francisco, if the Talamasca records throw up something that might affect what’s developing between them, he needs to know about that first.

He arrives mid-afternoon and amuses himself until sunset by visiting old haunts, noting all the ways the city has changed and he has not. When it’s dark he heads to the Talamasca Motherhouse and watches the tall, shadowy building from across the street. It's smaller than Amsterdam or even London and the place is quiet, the agents apparently favoring normal office hours. He can sense only four people in there, the warmth of their bodies and the call of their blood giving them away, no matter how well they might be able to shield their minds. All he needs now is Sam who, as if on cue, rounds the corner, cigarette in hand. He sees Armand and shakes his head. 

"You still set on this?" he asks. 

Armand nods. "Come on," he says, and follows him through the metal doors into the building reception where Sam is greeted by the receptionist and two bored looking guards. 

"Sam," she says, smiling. "I didn't know you were coming in." She taps on her keypad, gives Armand a puzzled look and frowns. "I don't have a guest clearance here. Let me just check—"  

"Rest," Armand says. Sam swears under his breath. The woman stops typing and looks dully at her screen. In his peripheral vision, Armand can see the guards start to reach for their radios. "Rest," Armand says to them. He guides the woman and the man to a nearby bench. "Sit. No one was here," he says to them both. "It's been a quiet night." 

Sam leads him up two flights of stairs and swipes them through a library and into a large room with rows of shelves from floor to ceiling, stacked with books and boxes and folders. "Most of it's digitised," he says, switching on the overhead light, "but it's not like I have access to that." He walks to the far wall and peers at the shelves. "This is it: the Vampire Armand, the Vampire Louis de Pointe du Lac, Daniel Molloy." He pulls out a box and dumps it on the table in the centre of the room. "Here you go. Start here: papers, audio, film. Film? Oh shit —" His head turns sharply towards Armand, his eyes widening. Armand can sense it too. The fourth person in the building is approaching. 

The door is pushed open and a well-dressed older man with silver hair and thick, black-rimmed glasses enters the room. 

"Hello, Sam," he says. Turning to Armand, he offers his hand. "Raglan James," the man says, letting his hand hover in the air for a few moments before shrugging and lowering it. "How exciting to finally meet the Vampire Armand." 

"I thought you'd been fired," Sam says. 

Raglan James chuckles. "It's not as if security can stop me. And you left the doors wide open. Very careless," he tuts. Armand gives him a steady, unblinking look. It's usually enough to unnerve mortals and most vampires; James simply stares back with barely contained amusement. He can see why Daniel doesn't much care for the man. "So," James says, pressing his hands together. "What are we doing here?" 

"Perhaps you would like to explain what you're doing here?" Armand says. 

"Not really." James' mind is unusually well-shielded but one thought slips out: blood. He looks around the room with deliberate theatricality. "No Daniel tonight? Shame. I've been meaning to catch up with him. I suppose you know about our little discussion?" 

Armand gives him the barest of nods.

"If I were you," James said, "I'd be wondering why he's so interested in what witches can do to vampires. I'd be watching my back if I left him like you did in Dubai. Might be good if you had someone like me on side. For a price." 

He's just fishing, Maître, Sam says.

No doubt, he replies. A lightning-quick thought has Raglan James flung against a bookcase. 

"No price," Armand says, watching him crumple slowly to the floor. "Tell me what you know."

Groaning, he shakes his head. "You'll have to do better than that," he gasps. He winces and cradles his arm. 

Armand considers throwing him around the room like a rag-doll, but he can't justify that level of damage to the archive. His air supply will have to do: within seconds an invisible force is crushing James' windpipe. Armand walks closer, increasing the pressure with every step. 

"You wouldn't want me to push much harder," he says, watching dispassionately as Raglan James clutches at his throat, his eyes bulging. "Your physiology is so fragile and, well, I have only the faintest grasp of how to perform a tracheostomy, let alone the inclination to try. Are you going to talk?"  

That he holds out for at least another minute is impressive, not that he needs to know that. 

Stop! he says, reaching out with his mind. I'll tell you. Please. 

Armand releases him and idly leafs through a binder while James catches his breath and stumbles over to the table. It takes a little longer for him to explain how witches can alter memories. It's fascinating. Or at least it would be if it didn't directly affect him. But he knows now that if the witch in Dresden was responsible, then his memories of Daniel are bound up and hidden somewhere inside his mind. 

"And how does one unbind these memories?" Armand asks. 

You're being very obvious, James says to him. His eyes flicker towards Sam. Armand doesn't trust this renewed attempt at usefulness, but he has a point. 

Well? Armand says.  

As I understand it, one memory is always left accessible. No, I can't tell you what it would be, he says in answer to the unvoiced question. Could be anything: a phrase, a physical object, music, even. Something innocuous, unlikely ever to be encountered again. But if it is, with a small amount of concentrated thought the binding should start to unravel. He gives Armand a shrewd look. As you can imagine, this could be devastating. 

But so as long as it stays hidden, the memories stay that way? 

Do you want them to? 

"And that's it?" Armand says.

"Don't mind me," Sam mutters, clearly offended he wasn't included in the conversation.   

“I have to say,” James says, eyeing Armand up like prey, “your power is quite the revelation. I believe the trance you put the staff in is still holding. That must be very draining.” With no warning, Armand feels a subtle pressure against his thoughts, a clammy, violating sensation as Raglan James tries to force entry to his mind. He has torn almost all the way through to his most private thoughts before Armand shuts him out. “And yet,” he continues, “I don’t think we’ve seen the half of what you can do.”

“That was incredibly ill-mannered,” Armand says and calmly constricts James’ airway for a few seconds just to remind him he can do it. “I have a good mind to drain you.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” James retorts, gasping. He stands up, smooths down his suit trousers and turns to Sam. “Have you told him about the tapes yet?”

“The what?” Sam says, far too innocently.

“But you brought them to us, Sam," James says with malicious delight. "You know exactly what I'm talking about,” He turns to Armand. “You liked to document your life, back then, you and Mr. Molloy.” He gives Armand an unsettlingly lascivious look. “All aspects of your life. But of course you'd know that, wouldn't you?” 

It takes over five hundred years of iron-clad willpower not to rise to the bait. "Of course," Armand says. 

"You'll find a viewing room just down the corridor. Do enjoy the show," James says with a knowing smirk and leaves the room, whistling quietly to himself.

With Raglan James gone, there is Sam Barclay to deal with, since the cat is now well and truly out of the bag. He turns to find him already backing towards the door. 

"I didn't know about this, I swear," Sam says. 

"It's okay," Armand says. "You're very obviously lying, but that doesn't matter." 

"So we're good?" Sam says hopefully. 

Armand shakes his head. "Not quite." He gestures to the table and chairs and, no longer in control of his body, Sam walks over stiffly and sits down. Armand takes a chair opposite him. "I don't care about a few photographs and tapes, but the conversation you were party to just now?" he shakes his head. "That won't do at all." 

Sam frowns in confusion and then his eyes go wide. "Fuck!" he says. "You forgot Daniel!" 

Armand rolls his eyes. Considering it's taken him until now to figure out what's going on, artistic merit is the only possible explanation for how Sam has survived this long. It's certainly not his abilities as a vampire or Talamasca agent. 

One hour later, Sam walks out of the room with only the vaguest recollection of the last few days and a strong desire to return to Europe, leaving Armand alone in a small, dark room with a collection of video tapes. 

He presses play on an ancient video player. Daniel had mentioned, offhandedly, that he had liked to make films, but he really has no idea what to expect. The screen is grainy black and white for so long he nearly gives up, but then the picture resolves and he sees the back of Daniel’s head, his brown curls coming briefly into shot, disappearing, then stepping back, pulling Armand with him by the hand. Armand watches as his expression transforms from uncomfortable to softly indulgent as Daniel cradles his face in both hands and kisses him.

By the time he finishes the last tape the sun is up and Talamasca agents are starting to filter back into the building.

He returns to New York on the first available flight.