He knows it's Armand. Too late to do anything about it— not that there's anything to do about it, aside from maybe tell the estate agent to go sit in the car, it's not like he's going to call out for Louis. Not after all that shit.
Anger sweeps over him (over the small kernel of relief, too, that it's not some other vampire come to collect on the book). He's moving towards his maker even as the man he's with is still settling into forced nothingness, probably looking like a very aggressive ancient miniature poodle, which is not very intimidating, but he is so mad.
Ventilation system, blah blah, Daniel is talking before Armand finishes—
"Why the fuck did you do that," is too flat to be a real question, his voice is raised by not like that. Behind tinted glasses, the yellow curl of his eyes is obvious, too intense in the moment to be color-corrected. There's no excuse for it. Armand will have one, he's sure, but he already knows it's going to be bullshit.
no subject
Anger sweeps over him (over the small kernel of relief, too, that it's not some other vampire come to collect on the book). He's moving towards his maker even as the man he's with is still settling into forced nothingness, probably looking like a very aggressive ancient miniature poodle, which is not very intimidating, but he is so mad.
Ventilation system, blah blah, Daniel is talking before Armand finishes—
"Why the fuck did you do that," is too flat to be a real question, his voice is raised by not like that. Behind tinted glasses, the yellow curl of his eyes is obvious, too intense in the moment to be color-corrected. There's no excuse for it. Armand will have one, he's sure, but he already knows it's going to be bullshit.