A minor ordeal, moving as a group. A moment where Louis' claws dig in rather than move with, before good sense overrules hind-brain instinct that cares very little for whether or not Daniel should be on his feet.
The loop continues. On and on and on, a neatly laid tripwire sprung. Ashes trailing them from the room. Daniel's blood under his nails.
I'm fine summons something near to a scoff, muted but unmistakable, unconscious as it is. As hooked as it inevitably becomes to the loop of blame playing like a second heartbeat in his head.
He hadn't meant to sit. Has found a seat regardless, straight-backed absence of himself letting a hand find Daniel's hip. His chin is easily caught; Louis does not fight the upwards tip of his face.
They've done some variation on this, he and Lestat. Louis' absence. Louis present but simply gone. They are in some halfway space, Louis' head going quieter and quieter as he closes himself off with the poison of these truths.
"How?" surely heads off everything else at the pass, the sterile neutrality of Louis' voice like a finger laid upon the heart of the trap Armand sent to them. "He was here."
Where here should mean Daniel's head, but feels like something else. Feels as if Armand stood in this room, just long enough to deal out injury.
If Daniel were lucid he might say something like, 'I wasn't in Armand's head, I was in Louis' head. I think if I tried to connect directly with Armand, things would have actually gone better for me, because I'd have just been kicked out, but instead I feel like I put my entire dick into a garbage disposal, except my dick is my brain, and I'm not exactly sure why, because I don't understand any of this psychic bullshit.'
But he's not, so he just stays where he is, dizzy.
A little patter of Lestat's fingers on Daniel's crown, Louis' chin, thinking, before he ducks into an elegant crouch before them. When he decided to go out in quasi-drag tonight, he did not predict he would be playing mother at some point. May as well commit.
"His little marionette was here," he says. "And he rode along. Like a flea. A tapeworm. A blood-sucking tic." Mixing metaphors, but how can he resist.
Keeping half a sense of what Daniel's mind is doing, like a finger on a pulse, measuring. Nothing more than just being injured, he thinks. Well, 'just'. The brain is a vital kind of organ to be made into tatters. Another, less committed tendril of awareness tracks the progress of Rachida, tamping down fear and putting through calls, and the way the staff of the hotel begin to configure themselves under her direction. Locking down. She is wondering if she needs to tend to Mr. du Lac directly. He flicks a thought at her that it isn't necessary at the moment, and withdraws from that direction.
"I am sure he is terribly jealous of anyone's ability to monitor his fledgling's mind, and built a little theatre to try it for himself." Lestat's hand at Louis' knee, stroking his thumb along the curve of his kneecap. "I assume you got in his way, mon cher."
And Lestat had told him to, without thinking. This inspires less guilt than it does irritation, that will ferment into something more.
"Will you tell me what he did then?"
He is not quite certain, having distracted himself—did Armand fire a nuke into Daniel's brain by way of Roy Travis? Lestat is certain he would have felt it if he had, and he isn't even sure it's possible. The thing he knows Armand did is, in itself, an improbability.
Lestat says mon cher and Louis gathers the words as if to hold them in one hand.
"He made the point he intended to make."
Chilly syllables. Truth detached from the detail. (How long had it taken Armand to mete out these punishments? Minutes? Hours?) The loop plays on and ash flakes away and when Louis looks down at his own hands, at Lestat's fingers at his knee, it is disorienting to find no sign of either.
Except in the ways in which Lestat is informed about where and how to place his concern. Louis' gaze drops and Lestat shifts his attention, hands moving in to circle his wrists, tipping his head to try to capture his attention.
"I can't see into your mind," he says. A reminder, gentle. "You have to tell me what occurred there."
Or: Louis doesn't have to tell him anything, of course, but the demand comes soft, needful, a desire to be of use rather than a desire to simply be in control of things.
Daniel. silent still. Louis can hear him breathing. He has Daniel's blood under his fingernails. Held on too tightly while Armand went about his work.
Lestat is touching, coaxing. A binding kind of contact that keeps Louis from slipping sideways and vanishing into the unyielding loop running in the back of his mind.
(You were still in the building. You were still in the building. You were still in the building. You were still in the building. You were still—)
Louis looks into Lestat's face. Luminous, steadier than Louis has seen him since they reconciled. The entreaty there is enough to jar loose an answer.
"He had things to show me. And he did."
How quickly Armand had plucked up those images, how quickly he'd pivoted. Louis' eyes stray to Daniel.
Steady is true, unwavering focus, no threat of breaking emotion that he can't simply wear plainly. Lestat strokes Louis' inner wrists with his thumbs, and follows that look to Daniel with a flick of a glance. And back again.
"Memories are real," he says. "As real as glass. As gravity."
If Lestat can't surmise that Daniel rescued Louis from that onslaught, he can at least deduce what it looks like when a young vampire puts himself in harm's way with the intent to do so. How revoltingly sweet of them both, trading heroisms.
"This one needs rest." Lestat pushes himself to stand up, giving Louis' wrist a last a squeeze of assurance before he lets go. A step drifted close to Daniel, his fingers catching the fledgling up under his chin to force a moment of eye contact. "He will feel better tomorrow."
Gentle but unrelenting, the way Lestat pushes Daniel under—away from pain, embarrassment, anger, and into an early rest, as if the sun had already touched the sky.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
The loop continues. On and on and on, a neatly laid tripwire sprung. Ashes trailing them from the room. Daniel's blood under his nails.
I'm fine summons something near to a scoff, muted but unmistakable, unconscious as it is. As hooked as it inevitably becomes to the loop of blame playing like a second heartbeat in his head.
He hadn't meant to sit. Has found a seat regardless, straight-backed absence of himself letting a hand find Daniel's hip. His chin is easily caught; Louis does not fight the upwards tip of his face.
They've done some variation on this, he and Lestat. Louis' absence. Louis present but simply gone. They are in some halfway space, Louis' head going quieter and quieter as he closes himself off with the poison of these truths.
"How?" surely heads off everything else at the pass, the sterile neutrality of Louis' voice like a finger laid upon the heart of the trap Armand sent to them. "He was here."
Where here should mean Daniel's head, but feels like something else. Feels as if Armand stood in this room, just long enough to deal out injury.
no subject
But he's not, so he just stays where he is, dizzy.
no subject
"His little marionette was here," he says. "And he rode along. Like a flea. A tapeworm. A blood-sucking tic." Mixing metaphors, but how can he resist.
Keeping half a sense of what Daniel's mind is doing, like a finger on a pulse, measuring. Nothing more than just being injured, he thinks. Well, 'just'. The brain is a vital kind of organ to be made into tatters. Another, less committed tendril of awareness tracks the progress of Rachida, tamping down fear and putting through calls, and the way the staff of the hotel begin to configure themselves under her direction. Locking down. She is wondering if she needs to tend to Mr. du Lac directly. He flicks a thought at her that it isn't necessary at the moment, and withdraws from that direction.
"I am sure he is terribly jealous of anyone's ability to monitor his fledgling's mind, and built a little theatre to try it for himself." Lestat's hand at Louis' knee, stroking his thumb along the curve of his kneecap. "I assume you got in his way, mon cher."
And Lestat had told him to, without thinking. This inspires less guilt than it does irritation, that will ferment into something more.
"Will you tell me what he did then?"
He is not quite certain, having distracted himself—did Armand fire a nuke into Daniel's brain by way of Roy Travis? Lestat is certain he would have felt it if he had, and he isn't even sure it's possible. The thing he knows Armand did is, in itself, an improbability.
no subject
Lestat says mon cher and Louis gathers the words as if to hold them in one hand.
"He made the point he intended to make."
Chilly syllables. Truth detached from the detail. (How long had it taken Armand to mete out these punishments? Minutes? Hours?) The loop plays on and ash flakes away and when Louis looks down at his own hands, at Lestat's fingers at his knee, it is disorienting to find no sign of either.
"To the extent he could."
no subject
Except in the ways in which Lestat is informed about where and how to place his concern. Louis' gaze drops and Lestat shifts his attention, hands moving in to circle his wrists, tipping his head to try to capture his attention.
"I can't see into your mind," he says. A reminder, gentle. "You have to tell me what occurred there."
Or: Louis doesn't have to tell him anything, of course, but the demand comes soft, needful, a desire to be of use rather than a desire to simply be in control of things.
no subject
Lestat is touching, coaxing. A binding kind of contact that keeps Louis from slipping sideways and vanishing into the unyielding loop running in the back of his mind.
(You were still in the building. You were still in the building. You were still in the building. You were still in the building. You were still—)
Louis looks into Lestat's face. Luminous, steadier than Louis has seen him since they reconciled. The entreaty there is enough to jar loose an answer.
"He had things to show me. And he did."
How quickly Armand had plucked up those images, how quickly he'd pivoted. Louis' eyes stray to Daniel.
"It felt real."
no subject
"Memories are real," he says. "As real as glass. As gravity."
If Lestat can't surmise that Daniel rescued Louis from that onslaught, he can at least deduce what it looks like when a young vampire puts himself in harm's way with the intent to do so. How revoltingly sweet of them both, trading heroisms.
"This one needs rest." Lestat pushes himself to stand up, giving Louis' wrist a last a squeeze of assurance before he lets go. A step drifted close to Daniel, his fingers catching the fledgling up under his chin to force a moment of eye contact. "He will feel better tomorrow."
Gentle but unrelenting, the way Lestat pushes Daniel under—away from pain, embarrassment, anger, and into an early rest, as if the sun had already touched the sky.
"We all will."