Chapter Text
Daniel Molloy has done an immeasurable number of stupid things in his 69 years of life.
Perhaps the stupidest thing he ever did was in 1973, when he went home with a guy he met at a gay bar who claimed he was a vampire. The plan had been to score some drugs, interview the freak, and—if Daniel was lucky—maybe get some sex out of the whole deal. A pretty fucking stupid plan that had resulted in him losing a chunk out of his neck.
Or maybe the stupidest thing he ever did came 49 years later, after he opened a package of old cassette tapes that had shown up mysteriously in his mailbox, despite having no address on the label. He’d responded by jumping on a plane and flying to Dubai—old, and sick, and in the middle of a global pandemic—because the same guy who most definitely was a vampire wanted a do-over.
Or maybe the stupidest thing he ever did was just this last week, when he decided to antagonize the household help, even after finding out that the mouthy, too-pretty-for-his-own-good, twenty-something was in fact, not a service worker and was in fact, a mouthy, too-pretty-for-his-own-good, 514-year-old vampire, and the guy’s husband. Daniel had then learned that he—the husband—had also been there in 1973, and that he’d held him—Daniel—hostage for six days while he tortured and nearly killed him. And yet Daniel had decided to continue antagonizing him—even more so than before!
So yeah, all of those things were really fucking stupid.
But hey! Would you look at that? A new contender has just entered the race!
Louis is gone. Out the door with a handshake and a promise of ten million dollars, his mind clearly already back in New Orleans, his heart already back with Lestat. Armand is still slumped against what’s left of the half-decimated wall, despite Louis commanding him—as he waved the rolled up script in Armand’s face like he was a dog who just got caught pissing on the rug—to pack his shit and leave.
The front of Armand’s black shirt is coated in a thick layer of dust. There’s flecks in his hair too, and he’s got blood on him. A handful of cuts across his brow and down his cheek, marring his otherwise perfect face. It looks like Louis must have swiped at him like an agitated cat before throwing him into the wall. He’s sitting there amongst the debris like an unexploded shell, but his chest is heaving up and down in a way that denotes more than just blind rage.
He’s powerful sure, and no doubt he’ll heal quickly, but right now, he’s clearly injured.
Good!
Speaking of packing his shit and leaving, Daniel should absolutely be doing that too. Everything inside of him is screaming alongside the instant message on his now incinerated laptop: “GET OUT! GET OUT OF THERE NOW!”
Well, almost everything.
There’s just something so pathetic about the way Armand looks right now—the way he’s writhing in the rubble, pained and lethargic, like he’s genuinely struggling to move. Part of Daniel wants to stay and see how this pans out. Of course, the guy has just proven himself to be a legendary liar, so the whole “wounded animal” shtick could be total bullshit. Daniel could be two seconds away from having his jugular ripped out. So, another part of Daniel, the smarter part—the part that’s causing his heart to race and the tremor in his right hand to intensify—is telling him to listen to Raglan James for once and run!
But still, Armand really doesn’t look like he’s in any shape to pounce on Daniel and rip out his jugular. And the thing is… Daniel had another dream, the night he unearthed the horrors of Divisadero Street. Fragmented flashbacks. Nothing cohesive. Much like the ones he’d had of Armand tormenting him—although this one was perhaps even more unsettling.
Him and Armand, holding hands and running through the rain.
Him and Armand, kissing and grinding on each other against the back of a motel room door.
Him sitting in Armand’s lap on the lumpy motel mattress, whimpering and trembling as the vampire tenderly, reverently pleasured him with his fingers.
Daniel had woken up in a cold sweat and he was… well, not hard, exactly. But as hard as he could get these days at a moment’s notice. He’d stroked himself off in his pajama pants until he'd gotten some relief, and he couldn’t really look either Louis or Armand in the eye the next day.
He also been extra petulant that day.
And while this other dream—(memory?)—was in many ways even more terrifying than the torture, it got him thinking. And now Daniel thinks he has reason to believe that maybe Armand wouldn’t hurt him, even if he could.
So yeah, you could say Daniel has a few more follow-up questions.
Some pretty fucking important ones.
Ones he was never going to be able to ask in front of Louis, but he wasn’t sure how he was ever going to get Armand alone again.
But now Louis is gone and Armand is here, and he seems kind of incapacitated. And Daniel’s never had a great sense of self-preservation, but he’s always had a dangerously persistent thirst for knowledge, and for truth, and for getting to the bottom of a good fucking story...
So, Daniel does the latest stupid thing in his long, long list of stupid things.
He balls his right hand into a fist in a feeble, but somewhat effective, attempt to quell the shakes, and he steps closer. He looks down at the vampire, hoping against hope that he’s correct in his theory that he finally, after almost fifty years, has the upper hand on this guy.
“So, how long do you think it’ll be before you haul your ass up?” he drawls, hoping to sound as smug as he feels.
Armand raises his head slowly, like it’s painful to move, but the scowl on his face is no less terrifying. Ambush predators move slowly too, before they spring at you and rip your fucking head off.
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Mister Molloy,” he says, unnaturally composed as he shifts in the rubble and winces, “but I am currently unable to haul my arse up. Which I’d say is rather fortunate for you.”
So he is hurt.
Fucking good!
Daniel folds his arms and tilts his head with feigned curiosity. “Why? Because you’d kill me? I don’t think so.”
Oh, he should not be acting this cocky while poking an apex predator with a stick.
“Why? Because Louis ask me not to?” Armand replies, his eyes wide and blazing. “Do you think I’m his kept boy? His rent boy. That I wouldn’t possibly disobey an order from Maître?”
His tone is so melodramatic and absurdly theatrical that Daniel almost laughs. Thank fuck he’s not that stupid.
“No,” Daniel says. “I already clocked that it’s only Maître with him when it’s hot or convenient.”
Armand cocks his head, a storm cloud darkening his expression.
“So, what makes you so certain, Mister Molloy, that if I regained the ability to move in the next thirty seconds, you wouldn’t have your throat between my teeth before you have the chance to ask and then what?”
Daniel tries to ignore the way his dick betrays him by twitching at the thought of Armand’s mouth on his neck—even if it is to kill him. Hey, there are worse ways to go. It’d sure beat the hell out of a slow death in a nursing home where no one visits him except the nurse who wipes his ass.
But Daniel is on a mission here.
“Because, I have a hunch,” —he’s proud of himself for the little snipe— “that if you wanted to kill me, I’d already be dead, several times over. In fact, if you wanted me dead, I wouldn’t have even made it through your front door.”
Armand huffs and rolls his eyes. The theater kid is back.
“Even in the face of all this carnage you’ve caused,” he says, “you still have absolutely no sense of self-preservation, do you?”
“It’s in my nature, isn’t it?” Daniel says, doing his best impression of himself from about fifteen minutes ago; all smug and bitchy—perfect for a journalistic take-down. “Which reminds me. ‘Couldn’t get out the door without lobbing one more bomb’? What the hell does that mean? I lobbed exactly zero bombs in San Francisco and that’s allegedly the only other time we’re supposed to have met, so tell me, what exactly would you know about my nature?”
Silence rings through the room. Not even the building with its still-highly-suspicious groan makes a sound.
Armand blinks twice. Processing.
Daniel gives him a look. The exact same look he’d given him after his earlier grand reveal. The look that he hopes says, gotcha motherfucker. Daniel fights the urge to punctuate the zinger by bitchily adjusting his glasses.
Armand shifts again in the rubble—this time with a fraction more purpose—and a flicker of panic darts through Daniel. The hand tremors, the heart rate spikes… maybe Daniel does have a shred of self-preservation left, after all. But then Armand goes slack against the wall again and the panic ebbs away.
Okay, so he is still incapacitated, he’s just… biding his time?
“I’ve read your memoir, Mister Molloy,” Armand says, finally settling on an answer, but noticeably not looking Daniel in the eye. “And I’ve observed you for the last two weeks while you’ve been a guest in my home.”
“Okay,” Daniel shrugs. “Doesn’t seem like long enough to get a full grasp on my nature, but sure, let’s go with that. And it still doesn’t really account for the whole ‘lobbing one more bomb’ thing… maybe I’ll lob another one before I go? Just for kicks.”
“I should kill you, right now,” Armand says, trying to sound bored as he tilts his head back to rest against the wall behind him.
“But you won’t,” Daniel says, with a little more confidence than he probably should have in this moment, where everything is hanging by a thread. “You had the chance before, and you didn’t take it.”
Armand laughs without mirth as he continues to gaze up at the ceiling. “Time makes fools of us all, Mister Molloy.”
“What’s time to a vampire?” Daniel volleys back.
Armand’s gaze flicks down to Daniel. He looks more irritated than angry, like Daniel is a fly that won’t quit buzzing around his head.
“Are you planning on packing your bags and leaving any time soon?” He asks. “Or do you get off on bearing witness to my suffering?”
Daniel snorts. “Interesting turn of phrase, all things considered.”
Armand groans, eyes back on the ceiling. “You’re insufferable.”
Daniel smirks. “Yeah, but you kinda like it, don’t you?”
Armand lifts his head and stares at Daniel, wide-eyed. He’s just gone on high-alert. The put-upon, long-suffering affectation is gone, replaced with… something else.
“What are you talking about?” He asks.
Daniel has to force his face back to neutral. The upper hand feels so fucking good.
Daniel casts a cursory glance at his watch. “It’s been about twenty minutes and you’re still on the floor.”
Armand drops his head back against the wall with another mirthless huff of a laugh. “Is that the sort of groundbreaking investigative journalism that wins one Pulitzer Prizes these days?”
Daniel folds his arms again. “Look, you can keep mouthing off, or you can give me some actual answers.”
Only Armand’s eyes move as he drops his gaze back to Daniel. “Perhaps I would if you’d ask me some actual questions.”
“All right,” Daniel says. “You’re an ancient vampire. Five-hundred-and-fourteen years old. Thrown hard enough into a wall that you nearly blasted out the other side. A pretty brutal take-down—almost as brutal as the one I just gave you in the reading room—but I imagine it’s probably the vampire equivalent of a stubbed toe. Still, you’re down for the count twenty minutes later.”
“That isn’t a question,” Armand says. “If you have a point, I suggest you make it quickly, I’m regaining sensation in my legs.”
“So how does Louis—at not-quite-a-century—walk into the sun, burn to a fucking crisp—he’s writhing in pain, unable to move from the bed… four days later he needs you to carry him bridal-style to the coffin because he still can’t walk—and by the time you’ve given me your little ‘loved by death’ speech and got your fangs in my neck, he’s got the energy to push the lid off his coffin, come into the room, and stop you from killing me?”
“I had given him my ancient blood,” he answers quickly, condescendingly. “It expedites the healing process, you know this.”
“You’re full of ancient blood,” Daniel points out like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “By that account you should be up and turning cartwheels by now.”
“Louis asked—”
“Bullshit!” Daniel snaps, his voice now just below a shout. “We just established you don’t do everything Louis asks! And I know Louis isn’t the reason you spared my life! You knew he was partial to me?” —Daniel scoffs— “In what fucking way? He took me home with the express purpose of stuffing me full of drugs, bitching about his ex-boyfriend, maybe fucking me, and ripping my throat out. Doesn’t seem all that partial. And I know it’s a lie because you practically programmed it into his head, so he’d recite it like a fucking doll with a ring-pull!”
Armand is still on the floor, but he’s doing this little tick thing with his jaw that kind of looks like he’s trying to stop his fangs from coming out. It’s terrifying, sure, but Daniel’s got about a million thoughts flying around in his head and he needs to get them all out now. He isn’t even sure if any of them make sense, or if eventually he’s going to blurt out something that really will make Armand jump up and kill him. But he’s in too deep now. He has to know. This is his story he’s trying to get to the bottom of. He hadn’t planned on becoming the fucking subject of this goddamn interview, but here he is!
Just like that, Daniel is knocked sideways by a blinding pain.
But it’s not Armand that’s taken him out. Not literally anyway.
Daniel winces and squeezes his eyes closed against the painful pinching in his head. Just like what he’d felt when the memories of Divisadero were coming back to him.
A flash of amber eyes, and dark smooth skin, and inky black curls, and double denim. A soft, sweet voice whispering to him in the darkness: I love you. If I hadn’t grown to love you, I would have killed you by now, of course.
“Daniel?”
Daniel opens his eyes.
Armand is blinking up at him, but he doesn’t look angry, or bitchy, or betrayed. He looks worried. Like he cares. Daniel swallows hard. There’s tension in the silence, and Armand’s concerned gaze is almost enough to knock Daniel off his game.
Almost.
Daniel shakes it off and barrels on.
“And partial?” he says. “Knew I would prove fruitful in later times? Louis doesn’t talk like that. At least he didn’t in the seventies. It’s not his language. You know what else isn’t his language?”
Daniel turns and stomps up the couple of steps that lead out of the sunken living room. He marches back to the half-destroyed reading room and retrieves the copy of his memoir from under the shattered remains of the fallen bookshelf. He flicks it open to the passage he had attributed to the free-baser—that he’d then attributed to Louis—and slots his thumb between the pages, marking the place.
He stomps back into the living room and down the steps to Armand, waving the book in the air. “This.”
Armand turns his face away from Daniel, like he’s afraid looking at the book will burn him, so Daniel gives it a little shake for emphasis.
“Tell me,” Daniel says. “Why would Louis, the guy who—during our last interaction—tried to kill me, say this to me?” He flips the book open and shoves it in Armand’s face. “Why the familiarity? Why the fondness? He couldn’t muster up a speech with this much purple prose for Lestat; for Claudia; for you, for fucks sake! So why me? He didn’t know me. We spent ten hours together and all he did was bitch about Lestat.”
Armand opens his mouth to reply, but Daniel’s not ready to shut up. Not when he’s this close to winning.
“And tell me, Armand,” he spits, “why would Louis call me a bright young reporter with a point of view? I never said that to him. I said it to you.”
Armand is still not looking at Daniel or the book, instead he’s got this thousand-yard-stare going on, as he gazes in the direction Louis stormed off down the hall. Maybe Armand is just biding his time, waiting to sense that Louis is far enough away before he leaps up and kills him after all.
“How long have you known?” Armand eventually asks.
“Long enough,” Daniel says. “Remembering San Francisco must have broken the seal. Didn’t take me long to figure it out after I dreamed… well, remembered… we—” Daniel cuts himself off.
The tips of his ears are burning with the memory of the dream.
Armand blinks at him. “Remembered we…?”
Daniel scowls. “You really gonna make me say it?”
Armand lifts a shoulder. “You were the one who wanted a discussion, Daniel.”
Oh, he’s insufferable!
“You know, I’d been so sure,” Daniel says, his hackles rising once again, “for fifty years, that I’d fucked a vampire… and when Louis said nothing happened between us, I figured I must’ve imagined it… but then I remembered you were there too… and I thought… surely not. And then the dream happened. And it was…”
Daniel trails off. More is coming back to him.
Writhing on the mattress as Armand takes him into his mouth.
Armand taking his hand and using it, and his own, together to stroke himself.
The mewling, gasping noises he made when Armand pushed inside him for the first time.
A chill goes down Daniel’s spine, and a heat crawls up his neck.
“Yeah… dream,” he scoffs, hoping to disguise the fact that he momentarily lost his thread (it’s so unconvincing to his own ears, he has to cringe). “More like a nightmare. Because Divisadero—the corpse by the television, the week of being rag-dolled around the house of fucking horrors—that made sense. But this…”
Daniel knows he’s blushing again, and he knows Armand must be able to smell it all over him.
The asshole.
Armand pins Daniel with his ember-like gaze, his expression more earnest than any other Daniel has seen him make.
“So, you remember that we were in love?”
Daniel opens his mouth. He closes it again. And open. And close. He must look like a fucking goldfish.
He fixes his jaw and finally settles on saying: “I didn’t say that.”
Armand gives him a look. “Why would I say those things that you wrote in your book if we were not?”
“Well, I thought Louis had said them, and I didn’t think we were in love,” Daniel fires back, quite smoothly he thinks.
“Well, we were,” Armand says, shifting in the rubble again, finally able to sit up a bit straighter, and brush some dust off his shirt. “And no amount of editorializing on your part is going to change that fact.”
Daniel scoffs. He knows he’s floundering. “Maybe you had some kind of fucked up obsession because I was your human plaything, and maybe I was into it because I was a fucking moron…”
Armand tilts his head to one side, like an owl, again.
“Do you think me incapable of love, Daniel?” He asks plainly. “Or do you think yourself incapable of being loved?”
Daniel has gone goldfish again.
“Because the way I remember it,” Armand continues, allowing some of the bitchiness to creep back into his tone now, “is that you and I were both the happiest we’d ever been when we were together, and that time was the only time in my half-millennium, that I loved and that I was loved, without condition or obligation.”
The heat is back in Daniel’s face again. Yeah, he’s flustered, but there’s something else roiling within him, causing his cheeks to flare. If he gets eaten, so be it.
“Yeah?” He says, brow furrowing, fists clenching, blood pressure no doubt rising. “And whose fault is it that I don’t remember it that way?”
Armand does that thing with his jaw again, working it like he’s trying not to bite the nearest human, which is unfortunately, Daniel. He puts his hands on the ground beside him and slowly pushes himself up out of the rubble. Daniel’s heart beats a little quicker, a little uneven, and Armand’s expression does this almost imperceptible little flicker from irritation, to concern, and then back to irritation again.
Daniel isn’t sure which is worse.
Armand stands to his full height, and it’s the tallest Daniel thinks he’s looked this whole visit. He isn’t compressed and folded in on himself, or trying to seem small and meek. No, now he’s imposing, he’s terrifying, he’s…
Fuck, he’s so hot. It’s not fair.
Daniel watches, frozen in place as Armand glares at him with his blazing eyes. But Daniel’s not being mind-fucked and puppeteered this time—no, this time he’s actually got enough of a sense of self-preservation to actually feel afraid.
Armand takes a few slow, deliberate steps towards him, and despite all his earlier bravado and bluster, Daniel’s pulse kicks up again and he jumps back—well, he doesn’t really jump; he’s 69-years-old, has Parkinson’s disease, and has been sitting down a lot these last two weeks—he more… stumbles back.
And wouldn’t you know it.
This stupid, fucking, modernist, minimalist apartment with its stupid, fucking, sunken rooms, and ridiculous amount of fucking steps. Interior design that no almost-septuagenarian fall-risk should ever be within throwing distance of… Daniel’s heel catches on the bottom step and he feels himself tip over backwards. It’s like it happens in slow motion, with enough time for him to think: Great! I’m going to break a fucking hip! Or crack his head open. Then it will be like blood in the water, and Armand will definitely kill him.
But the next thing he knows, before he has another second to process the fact that he’s falling, a pair of strong arms—arms that are so familiar—catch him around his middle.
Armand is no longer standing before him, glaring at him like he’s lunch. He’s behind him, and he’s holding him against his body—his firm, sculpted body—his arms wrapped tightly around Daniel like a boa constrictor. Daniel turns his head slowly, and gazes up over his shoulder, and he meets Armand’s eyes. Daniel’s breath hitches. Armand’s eyes aren’t that fiery orange anymore. They’re more like a warm honey color. And his pupils are huge. And he’s looking at Daniel like… like…
His gaze is fixed on Daniel’s mouth. He’s so close Daniel can feel the ghost of his breath on his face.
Holy shit.
Armand clears his throat (unnecessary—he’s a fucking vampire) and loosens his grip on Daniel, making sure he’s upright and steady on his feet before releasing him and folding his arms across his chest… that chest…
“At your age you really ought to be more careful,” Armand says, bitchily.
“Oh, fuck you,” Daniel replies, rolling his eyes. Then he mutters under his breath: “I need a fucking drink.”