Unbidden, a memory shuffles itself neatly into place by the one Armand offers him: Louis, silent and defensive and wary, as Lestat says some bullshit, yells it. Daniel, placating.

But Louis has forgiven him. Small kisses felt through the curtain of his hair while a hurricane rages outside. Louis looking down at him where he perches on the edge of the bathtub, touching his face. Turning in his arms to a corny karaoke performance. His hand in Lestat's as they look at a painting (and the sound of Daniel's footsteps as he moves away through the gallery, and it is quite frequent, these little careless fragments of Armand's fledgling, not a constant, but often there).

It's with intent that Lestat summons these thoughts, a layering of armor, insulating, protecting himself from psychic claws getting at the cracks. Look how soft and gentle and affectionate Louis is, even if he is mom ami, not mon cher.

That all happens as fast as thought. In the real world, Lestat charges.

Paris again, fangs long and heavy cloak flaring. The city is different. The clothing is different. But there are certain constants. One is this, a bestial manner towards handling conflict. He is faster, however, trying to move quicker than invisible iron hands, intent on getting his teeth in Armand's neck.