"Yeah," Louis says, into empty air. Watches dispassionately as his offering, as this blank-faced man at his feet, opens his mouth and echoes hazily, "Yeah."
Time enough in between this answer and their arrival for Louis to think again if he should have made a different choice. Run a finger along the knife-edge of that self-destruction, and again put it off.
(Oblivion would give him a little space, Louis knows. A little space from everything in his body that is screaming, screaming, screaming. It's too much. Louis doesn't know how to hold it.
But no. He did not choose oblivion and now he is here.)
Approaching footsteps. Door swinging open on creaking hinges. Louis' head lifts, looks back at them over his shoulder. Lestat, steadier than Louis left him. Daniel, occupying the doorway.
Okay.
Louis looks back, down to the lunch meat on the floor. His eyes briefly trace the heavy vein in this man's throat, a last wavering consideration of how this night might have gone. And then a sigh, a flex of power. The man begins to rise, clumsy, sleepwalking, tugged upwards so Lestat might be spared the task of bending down.
"I'll hold him." Not with his hands. "Least until you drain the fight out of him."
Practical.
(In fairness to Daniel Molloy, no one's concerns are welcome.)
no subject
"Yeah," Louis says, into empty air. Watches dispassionately as his offering, as this blank-faced man at his feet, opens his mouth and echoes hazily, "Yeah."
Time enough in between this answer and their arrival for Louis to think again if he should have made a different choice. Run a finger along the knife-edge of that self-destruction, and again put it off.
(Oblivion would give him a little space, Louis knows. A little space from everything in his body that is screaming, screaming, screaming. It's too much. Louis doesn't know how to hold it.
But no. He did not choose oblivion and now he is here.)
Approaching footsteps. Door swinging open on creaking hinges. Louis' head lifts, looks back at them over his shoulder. Lestat, steadier than Louis left him. Daniel, occupying the doorway.
Okay.
Louis looks back, down to the lunch meat on the floor. His eyes briefly trace the heavy vein in this man's throat, a last wavering consideration of how this night might have gone. And then a sigh, a flex of power. The man begins to rise, clumsy, sleepwalking, tugged upwards so Lestat might be spared the task of bending down.
"I'll hold him." Not with his hands. "Least until you drain the fight out of him."
Practical.
(In fairness to Daniel Molloy, no one's concerns are welcome.)