Swirling thoughts. He knows Armand has been in his apartment, obviously. Obviously. Thinking a little bit too hard about Armand wearing his pajamas, about giving him his spare key to keep him from doing whatever-it-was he was doing to break in. Probably just telekinetically undoing the lock from the other side of the front door, like an alien.
Killing Talamasca lurkers, though?
(He shouldn't appreciate it, right?)
Daniel gets a hold of himself and looks back at his phone, tapping it with his thumb, waiting for an email notification.
"That obnoxious jerk helped me get the script," he says. "And then got me out of Dubai. So. You know."
Daniel's mind is busy. Always churning. This close, Daniel's heart beating beneath his knuckles, Louis wants to find it only a comfort. Just feeling, not delving any further than the surface flutter of thought and question.
If he senses any part of Armand—
Louis puts it away.
"It's not altruism."
Sharply, brushing aside the implication Daniel leaves hanging between them.
"If he wants to send me a bill, he's welcome to it."
They'd been happy enough to watch, hadn't they? Spiders, observing and hoarding what they found. And Daniel was only in that position because of Louis. Louis should have gotten him out.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there," is insufficient. Louis offers it anyway, a little less heated.
Daniel is fine. Totally fine. It's fine. He's frustrated, he's worried about Lestat, but he's fine, and after the initial what the fuck, he settles. Something to be asked about later. He's not going to peel off now in the middle of this and text Armand, who is surely still awake, who doesn't seem to sleep much at all, and shove it in Louis' face that he's able to. Unhelpful.
(Unhelpful, but he still turns their connection over in his head. Half-expects a text to come his way for it. Worrying it like an itch.)
"It's not altruism," he agrees, calm in contrast to that sharpness. "But altruism wouldn't have been productive. And wouldn't be now."
Altruists never have any worthwhile information.
"You know we're past that. We have to focus on Lestat, today. Let's figure out who we're going to ask to go out, and fix them up with a phone they can have on a Zoom call with us."
Are they past it? Maybe Daniel is. Louis isn't. But he can't keep dragging Daniel back to that room, to Louis' absence in the worst moment. It would be selfish, damaging. And it is a distraction, in the moment.
So—
"Rachida is deciding,"
Delegating.
"I thought you'd rather Jeannie and Mark stay here."
Louis can afford to lose a handful of staff to vampires, if it comes to that. Daniel has a staff of two. Of one, really. He's not obligated to risk them. Louis can shoulder it.
Daniel moves the hand at Louis' side up, over his chest, a mirror of the earlier touch. A silent thank-you for the consideration about Jeannie and Mark, who would go out and look— Jeannie because she's fearless, Mark because he'll feel an obligation to, being whatever barely-there witch he is. But they're his friends, too. Kids. If they're going to die for hanging out with vampires, it should at least not be something Daniel sent them out to do.
"Alright."
Rachida is deciding.
"Hey." He squeezes Louis' shoulder. "Lestat'll be okay. He's gotten out of some pretty insane jams, it sounds like. And this is just Vermont."
Rachida is sending a handful of security staff out into the daylight with strict instructions on keeping a healthy distance, on not engaging, on information gathering.
She's very thorough, Louis knows. But she and Louis are both aware all the precautions in the world might not matter.
Beyond their room, down in the parking lot, a few car doors slam. Engines start. Daniel says this thing and Louis looks up into his face. Sets his hand over Daniel's at his chest, presses down. (Sense memory of all the times he did so with Lestat, over thirty years of their life together. Remembers all the things he had never been able to say. Still has not said.)
"Maybe."
Sick with the fear that Daniel might be wrong. That whatever has happened is terrible in a way Louis can't yet discern.
"You should try to sleep a little," tacks away from the enormity of this fear. "Before you try to reach him again."
And that is what scares Louis the most. Daniel can't reach him. Something, someone, blocking them both from contact. Alive, but isolated. And Louis is of so little use; he can't touch Lestat's mind, can't feel him. It's all on Daniel, who has already shouldered so much.
Woah woah woah woah hey hey hey hey. Those dudes aren't going anywhere without effectively livestreaming back to them, in the event Louis or Daniel notices something that the humans don't. It's like nobody else in this outfit has ever had to do shady surveillance on anyone for a story before. Be so for real, besties.
Once that's set up, Daniel leaves Rachida's tablet set up on the coffee table, displaying a feed from the passenger seat of their intel squad's vehicle, observing the area and occasionally hearing chat about where to go. What are they going to do, exactly, if they notice something suspicious? Well. That's a bridge they'll cross, etc, but at least it doesn't mean they're staring at a wall anxiously all day. They can stare anxiously at this instead, and give further directions if something does pop up.
"I'm an expert at daytime naps already, don't worry." One more perk of being Legitimately Old, versus the way the rest of the vampires have culturally appropriated Old Man status. "You have to get rest, too, though. In case you need to be on high alert the second the sun goes down."
"I'm older than you, Daniel," Louis reminds patiently. "I can rest tomorrow."
Rachida has left them with two mugs of blood. A tablet to watch this entire process in it's excruciating totality.
Louis thumbs over the little flares of a coven, of wayward vampires. Dismissing them in turn, skeptical of their involvement. Nice to know where and who circulates in this space, but Louis senses nothing malevolent. Maybe that would change if they recognized him, but—
No. They are moving unaware. No sign of circling wagons. Whatever is holding Lestat is something else. A different kind of fight to manage.
The connection between Louis and Armand is all shattered glass, razor wire, sharp points tangling around what once was. Louis toys with it anyway. Does not ask Daniel, but wonders if he'll have to seek help. If this is someone whose age outstrips Lestat, someone capable of posing a real problem. Who else would be able to hold him? Who else would be able to block them from touching Lestat's mind? Someone old.
Louis is thinking on his own contingencies. Considering that he will need to drink something livelier than a donation before he goes.
"Try," is the encouragement he offers Daniel. "I'll wake you if something happens, I promise."
Because Daniel loves Louis, and doesn't want to actively antagonize him right now, he doesn't mention that he remembers those weeks in Dubai, where Louis tapped out several times due to the shifting schedule accommodating Daniel's mortal day-night cycle. Easy to blame Armand, sure, but Daniel still thinks of it, and worries.
"Just ... hang out down here, with me. Yeah?"
He sits on the sofa, of which there is more than one of. The nice thing about renting a ridiculous house instead of contending with the too-slim options for hotels is that they have a living room that's been overtuned for luxury house parties. Daniel can crash out and Louis can pace around the little screen, currently glowing with morning daylight and quiet streets as their 'agents' take a roundabout route to get to the last pinged address, not wanting to roll directly into a trap, if they're being lured. Picking smarter angles, taking stock of the atmosphere.
When this all blows over into a loud argument about over-indulgence, this will be funny. Maybe. Daniel lays back, considers Louis, and considers the off-kilter feeling that refuses to shake free. What the fuck is it.
But Daniel summons him down, and Louis finds his way to settling. Lets Daniel lean into him while Louis watches the screen, wavering over what to hope for. Lestat, alive, above all. The details, Louis finds himself less picky over. His fingers find their way back into Daniel's hair as he watches his own staff make progress, come across—
Wreckage.
Louis watches the images pan across the screen. A crater, a destroyed bench. The contingent of confused police, circling. They've roped off the street, Louis observes.
Fear claws up his spine.
The staff comes back together to regroup. Louis makes good on his promise, gently shakes Daniel awake to report their findings.
"I think they should search the area. Ask questions."
But Daniel will surely have some ideas. Louis hires the best, with a wide array of questionable skill, but seeking wayward vampires was not part of the repetoire.
Drifting in and out. Daniel is a little aware, in between bouts of something near true sleep; his phone pings, and he forwards the email from Raglan to Louis, so that he can sift through it and see if he sees anyone familiar, anyone that can be matched to voices he's heard out in the Many. There are notes about the NYC 'coven', that they've always been extremely independent and disinclined to tangle with drama; this includes a telephoto-lens picture of Armand on a park bench with a woman with short hair, middle of the day. Daniel assumes the photographer is dead, now, which under normal circumstances would be a little funny.
(Brief spike of anxiety. Are there pictures of Armand at Daniel's book signings, in there? He and Armand getting in a cab to go back to his apartment? But there aren't any. Just what he asked for, nothing more.)
Jolting awake when roomba squad returns. Alright, okay. Blearily catching up, scrubbing through the feed of the weird area—
"Why, so the police can come back here and ask us why we have a suit squad that's infringing on their work?"
You GUYS.
"Gimme a minute." Thinking, flopped back on the sofa with his knees up, staring at the tablet still as it's held a few inches from his face. "What's out there, like cafes and photo-op spots at the harbor, shit like that?"
Polling the staff who went out there. He sifts through Google Maps.
Flipping through all these attachments, lingering over this photo of Armand. Is he different? Is he just as Louis left him, untouched by time and the sudden change?
"I don't pay them to be anything less than undetectable when they canvass an area of interest to me," Louis snips, brief correction. No one's hiring a man that uses Chad as an alias unless he's capable of avoiding detection by jumpy suburbanites and half-trained police forces.
But to the question, Louis recounts:
"A few restaurants, shops, a gas station. Some residential buildings," carries a half shrug. "Nothing too noteworthy. They closed the road for repairs, but people are still passing on foot."
"Okay," comes with a gesture of surrender, even if he sounds a little bit like What am I supposed to think, but it's fine. Fixers are one thing, but police all have body cameras and bazookas these days, and do not actually contain fewer white supremacists than there were in Louis' mortal days. It would just be cool to fully avoid them, is all.
Daniel notices that he still feels horrible. Worse, in fact. It's not normal anxiety, even though he is concerned for Lestat. Could it be the sun? He frowns to himself as he goes through things.
"Alright, so, new clothes, new car, plan a trip to whatever photo spot on the other side of it, stop in at the gas station?"
If one of the Talamasca dorks shows up maybe they can steal a camera and long-distance microphone that will surely be present. But he's received no further communication from Raglan, and isn't interested in contacting him again. His hand still hovers over his contact button for a moment, though, before he moves on.
"Maybe I can shake somebody down." Muttering to himself, pulling up phone numbers. "There's one police station in Burlington? Christ. They're going to be extra attune to knowing who's a tourist."
"Drink that," with a nod to the refilled mug. Fussing, knows it, can't help himself.
Can't get the pinch of worry off his face. If Louis feels terrible, Daniel doesn't need to know about it. He feels terrible, and he is trying to parse how much of it is fear and how much is that they're awake when they shouldn't be, or guilt, gnawing on Louis' ribs.
But even in he midst of it all, new car piques some interest. Yes, yes, Daniel's vehicle runs reliably, but it's not—
Alright, it's no a sports car. And that is what Louis considers, if they're picking up a new vehicle. If it's only to be disposable, Louis could certainly dispose of it after they'd finished.
"I can source a car," Louis agrees casually, "While you shake down the officers."
Sharpened nails tap tap tap along the glass surface of Rachida's tablet. Okay.
"Let me send them back out. They can gossip."
While Daniel is asking more pointed questions and Louis is orchestrating a carjacking.
"Even an Uber." Alright, alright, he will drink the blood, even though it's gross. "Uber drivers know all kinds of shit."
A proper taxi driver would be better, but they're not in a big city. Daniel does his best not to pull a face while drinking. It tastes worse than usual, somehow, and he just tries to chug it and get it overwith. No thinking about it, or the way he feels slightly queasy after.
Something has to be wrong. Something besides the in-a-vacuum fact of Lestat being absent. But is the fact that he feels like shit related? He sets the mug down and stares at it, and thinks about the way that Armand's very presence pings people as overly powerful. Could there be someone else around, sending out... brain fucky puke waves?
Christ.
He sighs, shakes his head, and calls the police station. Operation: looking for my daughter / son-in-law / assistant, commence.
Privately earmarks one to canvas for something fast and obscene. What did that even look like in Vermont?
Rachida enters, collects the tablet, Louis' mug. Louis relays their decisions. Rachida asks after the next hotel reservation, and Louis shakes his head. Not today. Maybe later tonight, to be managed tomorrow.
And while Rachida delegates and Louis' staff descend upon a quiet little town that has done nothing at all wrong, Louis leans his head back against the couch, closes his eyes, and splits his attention between listening for vampires and listening to Daniel start corralling some lowly beat-cop unlucky enough to pick up the phone.
Daniel talks, and talks, because he is good at that; he listens, because he's better at that. He continues to reach out with his mind, and poke gently at the block that is Lestat. That he hopes is Lestat. He tells himself it has to be, that if something has done so awry as to leave Louis without him, it's just too cruel of the universe. Not even worried about being next, or whatever. It just seems way too fucking mean.
Not much from the police station, but he ends up being given the number for the next closest one, in South Burlington, which is apparently an entirely separate town. Alright, sure. He enters the number, stares at it, thumbs over to his contacts instead.
'A', still there. Are you still in New York? Send. Fine.
He calls the police station, talks. This dispatch person is slightly less good at their job, and flubs up by asking Daniel if his missing person might have been near 'the weird meteor or whatever' by the harbor. The guy just thinks somebody tried to drop a safe from a crane, or something equally bizarre, but had heard that an ambulance was out around five AM, so maybe he could try calling the hospital.
Which he does. More talking. More listening. What if Lestat is in a room in the ER, a burn victim not responding to treatment, playing along until nightfall? It would at least be funny.
Sitting quietly alongside Daniel, Louis leans his head back against the sofa cushions. He keeps a measuring sort of tab on the patter of Daniel's conversation, a tethering link like a finger set to the edge of Daniel's mind.
Louis has put his own phone down on the coffee table in front of them. A necessary measure, so Louis does not break it. He has sent messages, over and over. There has been no answer.
Part of him wants to simply ask. Say, Daniel, is he dead? Ask, Are we playing fools?
It is a helplessly destructive part of Louis. It is the part of him that wants to cross the room to play his fingertips along the edge of the curtain.
"Would you tell me if he were leaving?" is what Louis eventually settles on. Whether this is better or worse is a toss up, surely.
Aware of Louis' presence. He has to stop thinking about Armand. And yet, he suspects Louis is also sometimes thinking about Armand, today. Not quite an elephant in the room, because it's fucking ridiculous to think that he'd help find Lestat, but a mutual pain point. Louis, conditioned for almost a century, and Daniel, subject to the beckoning comfort of the bond.
But Armand helped before when Daniel asked. Sort of. Answered questions, met up. That counts, right? ... Maybe. But he wouldn't, over Lestat.
Why does he feel like he's going to throw up all that fridged blood, though.
Lost in thought, staring at his phone, the next number to call half tapped into the screen—
"What?"
Head snaps up, stares at Louis with a knitted brow. What a dismal fucking question. Something about it is so vulnerable, so worst-case-scenario, it almost catches his breath.
"Yeah, I would rat him out fucking instantly," be says. "But he isn't. He wouldn't. I don't think he'd tell me if he was, obviously I would tell you. But he isn't."
It's a terrible, insidious thought. Once given even that minor inch of ground, it puts down roots. Louis can only think of the possibility, of Lestat growing bored, walking into the night, and leaving Louis to the absurdity of this search. Seeking and seeking someone who is certainly not present to be found. It would be like a terrible kind of joke.
He doesn't say anything, not immediately. Daniel says these things, says he isn't with such conviction, and Louis has to wrestle with doubt. (Daniel had said, you wouldn't with the same conviction, and Armand later had presented all the plausible ways in which Louis would, actually, have sought just what Daniel said he did not.)
(Amid the many messages and calls to Lestat, there is one outlier. A rarely used number, sporadic messages comprising largely of tangible items: links, pdfs, things that suffer when transmitted between minds. Into this thread, a single word phrased as a question: Armand?
Grasping at air. Reaching into a void.)
"I can't feel him," can mean any number of things. "He's shutting me out."
Laying these things out for inspection. Maybe it would be better if they weren't trapped in a room, could walk and talk, and Louis could outpace this dread. He feels sick. Lost. He can't shake it away.
Maybe it's time for Louis to put a personal embargo on believing Armand, Daniel might say. He might also say do as I say not as I do, do not inspect anything about Armand that I'm dealing with. But he doesn't know all that anyway, and they have more important things to grapple with, like, still, where the fuck is Lestat.
"He could be." Daniel reaches out for Louis' hand. "He could also be asleep, or hurt, or muffled by somebody else. And, look, I really do not believe for a minute he'd bail, but if he did."
If he did. Daniel sighs, thoughts on how to word it. Or if he should, if he's just steamrolling assumptions about someone he doesn't really know that well. Probably, but also, he spent all this time dissecting these people for the book, and Daniel thinks very highly of his own opinions, right or wrong, so steamrolling it is.
"I think he'd just want you to chase him. I think he'd only dramatically fling himself overboard so you'd run to look, you know? This is hurting you, though, and I don't think he'd want that."
Is this flattering or insulting to Lestat?? B..oth??
They've forgiven each other, he and Lestat. Louis had said that to Daniel before he ever set foot on a plane to New York. He believes it to be true.
But Lestat is gone. There is so much room in his absence for doubts. Maybe he left. Maybe he was taken. Both come back around to Louis, feeling himself an igniting point regardless.
Daniel takes his hand. Louis permits this, lets long moments pass before tangling their fingers. Engaging this small comfort. Waiting out the kneejerk of feeling that comes of Daniel naming a feeling Louis is having: This is hurting you. Bites down on the urge to deflect away.
"How many hours until we can make a real run at chasing him?" Louis queries. Daniel has his phone. These days, sunset is triangulated via app.
Easier questions than trying to put voice to all the fears swirling in his head.
Do his hands feel different to other people, now that he's a vampire? Less offputting, leathery, unsupple skin given new life? He doesn't tremble where he squeezes Louis back once he finally reaches back. He's still grateful. He'd rather be like this, spared so much suffering, able to do whatever the fuck he wants.
Except go outside right now.
"Three hours, give or take," he answers. His internal sense of it is getting better, and a quick glance at the time on his phone confirms it.
"Let's go over what we've got, so we're ready to right away."
A block away from the harbour, unnoticed by brief flurries of police activity, roving plainclothes personal security in Ubers, or the potential arrival of British librarian-spies, is a dumpster in an alleyway that contains a two-hundred and sixty-two year old monster. Who is also having a stressful day.
Around three in the afternoon, a young man exits one of the nearby buildings, hauling a black trash bag. He gets about five feet from the dumpster he is aiming for before his vision goes white at the edges, and he comes to on the sidewalk of the street, off-balance and bleeding from the nose, trash abandoned on the floor of the alleyway. Later, an unhoused individual with the aim to peek beneath the lid finds himself staggering backwards into the opposite wall at great force, clutched with unnamed fear.
And that is all, really.
Within metal walls, there's no healing sleep. The occasional stretch of trance-like fugue state interspersed with heightened animal awareness, curled up against one side on a bed of mainly cardboard boxes and enclosed plastic bags, small mercies. Starving without motivation to feed. Bleeding from wounds that have no reason to close. If Lestat is aware of Daniel's attempts to make contact, the slab of psychic concrete he has pulled over himself is too indiscriminate to allow anyone near, friend or foe.
The sun sets. He feels himself more awake, more aware. It is safe to leave. Instead, new found cognizance is used to remember all the reasons he feels bad and dissolve into weeping, head beneath the fold of his arms. Nothing of value awaits him beyond this place, so why should he leave it?
As if, perhaps, to prove this is so, that steel door that closes his mind off from the Many opens by a sliver of a crack.
It itches to be out so soon. The soonest Daniel has made an attempt— only that one evening just before they left, when he needed some hours to himself, had cut it closer. The very edge of the horizon is still ombre, no stars yet making their way past the memory of sunlight, but the car door slams and they're out of the garage, GPS programmed to help them go around points of interest.
Because of course very little had come of sending Louis' people around, even with Daniel's fiddly requests. Filling time. Wasting gas money. Confusing his employees.
The best lead is whatever-it-was, near the harbor, coincidentally on the other side of Lestat's phone's last location. They go, and Daniel drives, and thinks You stupid fucking asshole if you really have run off and crushed his heart I'm going to be so disappointed.
He has texted Armand again. Asking after illnesses. He doesn't know what else to ask, he doesn't know how to force his maker to respond. He still feels uneasy and off-kilter, and Armand hasn't responded. Not that he has to. Not that the other night has to mean anything. Daniel wonders if he really did get hosed, if this is him being one-upped by somebody half a millennia old, or if it's just going to be that his prediction about being totally incidental was right after all. Of course Armand bailed. He hates everyone Daniel is spending time with, and probably hates Daniel, too.
(Meanwhile: voicemail backlog? Does it exist, for psychic intrusions? A hundred pebbles chucked at his window all day, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Armand's favorite word.)
"Do you think you'd know if you were close to him? Physically?"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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Swirling thoughts. He knows Armand has been in his apartment, obviously. Obviously. Thinking a little bit too hard about Armand wearing his pajamas, about giving him his spare key to keep him from doing whatever-it-was he was doing to break in. Probably just telekinetically undoing the lock from the other side of the front door, like an alien.
Killing Talamasca lurkers, though?
(He shouldn't appreciate it, right?)
Daniel gets a hold of himself and looks back at his phone, tapping it with his thumb, waiting for an email notification.
"That obnoxious jerk helped me get the script," he says. "And then got me out of Dubai. So. You know."
Kind of obliged to put up with him.
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If he senses any part of Armand—
Louis puts it away.
"It's not altruism."
Sharply, brushing aside the implication Daniel leaves hanging between them.
"If he wants to send me a bill, he's welcome to it."
They'd been happy enough to watch, hadn't they? Spiders, observing and hoarding what they found. And Daniel was only in that position because of Louis. Louis should have gotten him out.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there," is insufficient. Louis offers it anyway, a little less heated.
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(Unhelpful, but he still turns their connection over in his head. Half-expects a text to come his way for it. Worrying it like an itch.)
"It's not altruism," he agrees, calm in contrast to that sharpness. "But altruism wouldn't have been productive. And wouldn't be now."
Altruists never have any worthwhile information.
"You know we're past that. We have to focus on Lestat, today. Let's figure out who we're going to ask to go out, and fix them up with a phone they can have on a Zoom call with us."
no subject
So—
"Rachida is deciding,"
Delegating.
"I thought you'd rather Jeannie and Mark stay here."
Louis can afford to lose a handful of staff to vampires, if it comes to that. Daniel has a staff of two. Of one, really. He's not obligated to risk them. Louis can shoulder it.
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"Alright."
Rachida is deciding.
"Hey." He squeezes Louis' shoulder. "Lestat'll be okay. He's gotten out of some pretty insane jams, it sounds like. And this is just Vermont."
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She's very thorough, Louis knows. But she and Louis are both aware all the precautions in the world might not matter.
Beyond their room, down in the parking lot, a few car doors slam. Engines start. Daniel says this thing and Louis looks up into his face. Sets his hand over Daniel's at his chest, presses down. (Sense memory of all the times he did so with Lestat, over thirty years of their life together. Remembers all the things he had never been able to say. Still has not said.)
"Maybe."
Sick with the fear that Daniel might be wrong. That whatever has happened is terrible in a way Louis can't yet discern.
"You should try to sleep a little," tacks away from the enormity of this fear. "Before you try to reach him again."
And that is what scares Louis the most. Daniel can't reach him. Something, someone, blocking them both from contact. Alive, but isolated. And Louis is of so little use; he can't touch Lestat's mind, can't feel him. It's all on Daniel, who has already shouldered so much.
no subject
Once that's set up, Daniel leaves Rachida's tablet set up on the coffee table, displaying a feed from the passenger seat of their intel squad's vehicle, observing the area and occasionally hearing chat about where to go. What are they going to do, exactly, if they notice something suspicious? Well. That's a bridge they'll cross, etc, but at least it doesn't mean they're staring at a wall anxiously all day. They can stare anxiously at this instead, and give further directions if something does pop up.
"I'm an expert at daytime naps already, don't worry." One more perk of being Legitimately Old, versus the way the rest of the vampires have culturally appropriated Old Man status. "You have to get rest, too, though. In case you need to be on high alert the second the sun goes down."
no subject
Rachida has left them with two mugs of blood. A tablet to watch this entire process in it's excruciating totality.
Louis thumbs over the little flares of a coven, of wayward vampires. Dismissing them in turn, skeptical of their involvement. Nice to know where and who circulates in this space, but Louis senses nothing malevolent. Maybe that would change if they recognized him, but—
No. They are moving unaware. No sign of circling wagons. Whatever is holding Lestat is something else. A different kind of fight to manage.
The connection between Louis and Armand is all shattered glass, razor wire, sharp points tangling around what once was. Louis toys with it anyway. Does not ask Daniel, but wonders if he'll have to seek help. If this is someone whose age outstrips Lestat, someone capable of posing a real problem. Who else would be able to hold him? Who else would be able to block them from touching Lestat's mind? Someone old.
Louis is thinking on his own contingencies. Considering that he will need to drink something livelier than a donation before he goes.
"Try," is the encouragement he offers Daniel. "I'll wake you if something happens, I promise."
no subject
"Just ... hang out down here, with me. Yeah?"
He sits on the sofa, of which there is more than one of. The nice thing about renting a ridiculous house instead of contending with the too-slim options for hotels is that they have a living room that's been overtuned for luxury house parties. Daniel can crash out and Louis can pace around the little screen, currently glowing with morning daylight and quiet streets as their 'agents' take a roundabout route to get to the last pinged address, not wanting to roll directly into a trap, if they're being lured. Picking smarter angles, taking stock of the atmosphere.
When this all blows over into a loud argument about over-indulgence, this will be funny. Maybe. Daniel lays back, considers Louis, and considers the off-kilter feeling that refuses to shake free. What the fuck is it.
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But Daniel summons him down, and Louis finds his way to settling. Lets Daniel lean into him while Louis watches the screen, wavering over what to hope for. Lestat, alive, above all. The details, Louis finds himself less picky over. His fingers find their way back into Daniel's hair as he watches his own staff make progress, come across—
Wreckage.
Louis watches the images pan across the screen. A crater, a destroyed bench. The contingent of confused police, circling. They've roped off the street, Louis observes.
Fear claws up his spine.
The staff comes back together to regroup. Louis makes good on his promise, gently shakes Daniel awake to report their findings.
"I think they should search the area. Ask questions."
But Daniel will surely have some ideas. Louis hires the best, with a wide array of questionable skill, but seeking wayward vampires was not part of the repetoire.
no subject
(Brief spike of anxiety. Are there pictures of Armand at Daniel's book signings, in there? He and Armand getting in a cab to go back to his apartment? But there aren't any. Just what he asked for, nothing more.)
Jolting awake when roomba squad returns. Alright, okay. Blearily catching up, scrubbing through the feed of the weird area—
"Why, so the police can come back here and ask us why we have a suit squad that's infringing on their work?"
You GUYS.
"Gimme a minute." Thinking, flopped back on the sofa with his knees up, staring at the tablet still as it's held a few inches from his face. "What's out there, like cafes and photo-op spots at the harbor, shit like that?"
Polling the staff who went out there. He sifts through Google Maps.
no subject
"I don't pay them to be anything less than undetectable when they canvass an area of interest to me," Louis snips, brief correction. No one's hiring a man that uses Chad as an alias unless he's capable of avoiding detection by jumpy suburbanites and half-trained police forces.
But to the question, Louis recounts:
"A few restaurants, shops, a gas station. Some residential buildings," carries a half shrug. "Nothing too noteworthy. They closed the road for repairs, but people are still passing on foot."
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Daniel notices that he still feels horrible. Worse, in fact. It's not normal anxiety, even though he is concerned for Lestat. Could it be the sun? He frowns to himself as he goes through things.
"Alright, so, new clothes, new car, plan a trip to whatever photo spot on the other side of it, stop in at the gas station?"
If one of the Talamasca dorks shows up maybe they can steal a camera and long-distance microphone that will surely be present. But he's received no further communication from Raglan, and isn't interested in contacting him again. His hand still hovers over his contact button for a moment, though, before he moves on.
"Maybe I can shake somebody down." Muttering to himself, pulling up phone numbers. "There's one police station in Burlington? Christ. They're going to be extra attune to knowing who's a tourist."
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Can't get the pinch of worry off his face. If Louis feels terrible, Daniel doesn't need to know about it. He feels terrible, and he is trying to parse how much of it is fear and how much is that they're awake when they shouldn't be, or guilt, gnawing on Louis' ribs.
But even in he midst of it all, new car piques some interest. Yes, yes, Daniel's vehicle runs reliably, but it's not—
Alright, it's no a sports car. And that is what Louis considers, if they're picking up a new vehicle. If it's only to be disposable, Louis could certainly dispose of it after they'd finished.
"I can source a car," Louis agrees casually, "While you shake down the officers."
Sharpened nails tap tap tap along the glass surface of Rachida's tablet. Okay.
"Let me send them back out. They can gossip."
While Daniel is asking more pointed questions and Louis is orchestrating a carjacking.
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A proper taxi driver would be better, but they're not in a big city. Daniel does his best not to pull a face while drinking. It tastes worse than usual, somehow, and he just tries to chug it and get it overwith. No thinking about it, or the way he feels slightly queasy after.
Something has to be wrong. Something besides the in-a-vacuum fact of Lestat being absent. But is the fact that he feels like shit related? He sets the mug down and stares at it, and thinks about the way that Armand's very presence pings people as overly powerful. Could there be someone else around, sending out... brain fucky puke waves?
Christ.
He sighs, shakes his head, and calls the police station. Operation: looking for my daughter / son-in-law / assistant, commence.
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Privately earmarks one to canvas for something fast and obscene. What did that even look like in Vermont?
Rachida enters, collects the tablet, Louis' mug. Louis relays their decisions. Rachida asks after the next hotel reservation, and Louis shakes his head. Not today. Maybe later tonight, to be managed tomorrow.
And while Rachida delegates and Louis' staff descend upon a quiet little town that has done nothing at all wrong, Louis leans his head back against the couch, closes his eyes, and splits his attention between listening for vampires and listening to Daniel start corralling some lowly beat-cop unlucky enough to pick up the phone.
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Not much from the police station, but he ends up being given the number for the next closest one, in South Burlington, which is apparently an entirely separate town. Alright, sure. He enters the number, stares at it, thumbs over to his contacts instead.
'A', still there. Are you still in New York? Send. Fine.
He calls the police station, talks. This dispatch person is slightly less good at their job, and flubs up by asking Daniel if his missing person might have been near 'the weird meteor or whatever' by the harbor. The guy just thinks somebody tried to drop a safe from a crane, or something equally bizarre, but had heard that an ambulance was out around five AM, so maybe he could try calling the hospital.
Which he does. More talking. More listening. What if Lestat is in a room in the ER, a burn victim not responding to treatment, playing along until nightfall? It would at least be funny.
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Louis has put his own phone down on the coffee table in front of them. A necessary measure, so Louis does not break it. He has sent messages, over and over. There has been no answer.
Part of him wants to simply ask. Say, Daniel, is he dead? Ask, Are we playing fools?
It is a helplessly destructive part of Louis. It is the part of him that wants to cross the room to play his fingertips along the edge of the curtain.
"Would you tell me if he were leaving?" is what Louis eventually settles on. Whether this is better or worse is a toss up, surely.
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But Armand helped before when Daniel asked. Sort of. Answered questions, met up. That counts, right? ... Maybe. But he wouldn't, over Lestat.
Why does he feel like he's going to throw up all that fridged blood, though.
Lost in thought, staring at his phone, the next number to call half tapped into the screen—
"What?"
Head snaps up, stares at Louis with a knitted brow. What a dismal fucking question. Something about it is so vulnerable, so worst-case-scenario, it almost catches his breath.
"Yeah, I would rat him out fucking instantly," be says. "But he isn't. He wouldn't. I don't think he'd tell me if he was, obviously I would tell you. But he isn't."
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He doesn't say anything, not immediately. Daniel says these things, says he isn't with such conviction, and Louis has to wrestle with doubt. (Daniel had said, you wouldn't with the same conviction, and Armand later had presented all the plausible ways in which Louis would, actually, have sought just what Daniel said he did not.)
(Amid the many messages and calls to Lestat, there is one outlier. A rarely used number, sporadic messages comprising largely of tangible items: links, pdfs, things that suffer when transmitted between minds. Into this thread, a single word phrased as a question: Armand?
Grasping at air. Reaching into a void.)
"I can't feel him," can mean any number of things. "He's shutting me out."
Laying these things out for inspection. Maybe it would be better if they weren't trapped in a room, could walk and talk, and Louis could outpace this dread. He feels sick. Lost. He can't shake it away.
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"He could be." Daniel reaches out for Louis' hand. "He could also be asleep, or hurt, or muffled by somebody else. And, look, I really do not believe for a minute he'd bail, but if he did."
If he did. Daniel sighs, thoughts on how to word it. Or if he should, if he's just steamrolling assumptions about someone he doesn't really know that well. Probably, but also, he spent all this time dissecting these people for the book, and Daniel thinks very highly of his own opinions, right or wrong, so steamrolling it is.
"I think he'd just want you to chase him. I think he'd only dramatically fling himself overboard so you'd run to look, you know? This is hurting you, though, and I don't think he'd want that."
Is this flattering or insulting to Lestat?? B..oth??
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But Lestat is gone. There is so much room in his absence for doubts. Maybe he left. Maybe he was taken. Both come back around to Louis, feeling himself an igniting point regardless.
Daniel takes his hand. Louis permits this, lets long moments pass before tangling their fingers. Engaging this small comfort. Waiting out the kneejerk of feeling that comes of Daniel naming a feeling Louis is having: This is hurting you. Bites down on the urge to deflect away.
"How many hours until we can make a real run at chasing him?" Louis queries. Daniel has his phone. These days, sunset is triangulated via app.
Easier questions than trying to put voice to all the fears swirling in his head.
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Except go outside right now.
"Three hours, give or take," he answers. His internal sense of it is getting better, and a quick glance at the time on his phone confirms it.
"Let's go over what we've got, so we're ready to right away."
Smash-cut to: Out?
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Around three in the afternoon, a young man exits one of the nearby buildings, hauling a black trash bag. He gets about five feet from the dumpster he is aiming for before his vision goes white at the edges, and he comes to on the sidewalk of the street, off-balance and bleeding from the nose, trash abandoned on the floor of the alleyway. Later, an unhoused individual with the aim to peek beneath the lid finds himself staggering backwards into the opposite wall at great force, clutched with unnamed fear.
And that is all, really.
Within metal walls, there's no healing sleep. The occasional stretch of trance-like fugue state interspersed with heightened animal awareness, curled up against one side on a bed of mainly cardboard boxes and enclosed plastic bags, small mercies. Starving without motivation to feed. Bleeding from wounds that have no reason to close. If Lestat is aware of Daniel's attempts to make contact, the slab of psychic concrete he has pulled over himself is too indiscriminate to allow anyone near, friend or foe.
The sun sets. He feels himself more awake, more aware. It is safe to leave. Instead, new found cognizance is used to remember all the reasons he feels bad and dissolve into weeping, head beneath the fold of his arms. Nothing of value awaits him beyond this place, so why should he leave it?
As if, perhaps, to prove this is so, that steel door that closes his mind off from the Many opens by a sliver of a crack.
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Because of course very little had come of sending Louis' people around, even with Daniel's fiddly requests. Filling time. Wasting gas money. Confusing his employees.
The best lead is whatever-it-was, near the harbor, coincidentally on the other side of Lestat's phone's last location. They go, and Daniel drives, and thinks You stupid fucking asshole if you really have run off and crushed his heart I'm going to be so disappointed.
He has texted Armand again. Asking after illnesses. He doesn't know what else to ask, he doesn't know how to force his maker to respond. He still feels uneasy and off-kilter, and Armand hasn't responded. Not that he has to. Not that the other night has to mean anything. Daniel wonders if he really did get hosed, if this is him being one-upped by somebody half a millennia old, or if it's just going to be that his prediction about being totally incidental was right after all. Of course Armand bailed. He hates everyone Daniel is spending time with, and probably hates Daniel, too.
(Meanwhile: voicemail backlog? Does it exist, for psychic intrusions? A hundred pebbles chucked at his window all day, Lestat, Lestat, Lestat, Armand's favorite word.)
"Do you think you'd know if you were close to him? Physically?"
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cw wound grossness
ew gross
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enjoy tag of nothing
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tag of nothing, redux.
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sorry this is so many words
w o w
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