Maybe the most. In quantity, quality. A reflex, nearly, to dangle a carrot, point out his virtues, but he doesn't linger. What, is he going to take Armand's abandoned fledgling under his wing? He would prefer to adopt the role of fun uncle (or wine aunt) than daddy in this particular instance. Maybe the occasional cool trick.
Depending. Daniel has what he needs to get by, and Lestat moves past it, moves past this talk of Great Conversions, even though it feels to him like it's going to become something he may need to catch up on about, after his long reclusive seventy-seven years. Which brings them to,
"I don't want a revision," and Lestat abruptly in front of Molloy, hands out to touch his leather jacket, straighten it unnecessarily. "Is that how you imagine my story, crammed into the footnotes of another?"
Daniel knows that. Daniel heard (and recorded, and printed) tales of his abuse, his rage, his passionate chaos. Daniel is danger here, perhaps even more than in that alley with two angry opponents wanting to bring him to justice for exposing their world. And yet when Lestat film-edit blinks his way to being there, touching him with a silken threat, he feels energized instead of terrified.
A big problem for him. Always has been. Something looks like it's going to be an awful time and he goes I bet it'd be cool, though. Like leaning against the counter and asking Louis to show him his fangs again. Like fucking drugs.
This'll kill me, maybe, but it'll feel good.
"I don't want to imagine your story," he says, not pulling away. "I want sequels and movies and fucking world tours out of your story."
The absence of dilating pupils, the telltale of being made a mark of any kind, is probably not especially assuring when being regarded this intensely, this closely, with the unearthly glow of pale blue. Warmth never quite gets there, no matter how friendly, how amiable, how charming Lestat might choose to be in a given moment. Not here. Appraising.
But: Daniel says this thing, and the sense of a pending change in mood swings around. A smile, blooming slow, displaying only blunt human teeth, and the hands settled on Daniel's jacket tugs it playfully with the throaty chuckle that follows.
"Now you are speaking my language," he says.
He had meant it. He wants to be on television. If his reference point is a little outdated—MTV is not the influence it was, music videos dominate less screens than they used to, and the kind of godlike reverence he has seen ascribed to celebrities means something different in a world with Twitter beef and a cynical societal literacy of pop culture—the sentiment remains.
He rocks back on his heels, and Daniel doesn't have to brace too much to resist being tugged along by accident, and then he is released.
"I'm working on some things," a pivot, heading further away from the lake. Pausing, as if realising just now they are in the middle of the forest—which is fine, but he tips his head to get a sense of direction as he continues. "You will be sure to keep an eye out."
A sense of brushing close to a nightmare and drifting away. A thrill ride.
"I'm already a fan."
For better or for worse. Daniel should hate him, maybe. But even if Lestat rages against what's there in the book, a person crafted from impressions of others who have the worst of complicated connections, Daniel championed him in the end. He thought about leaving the twist out of it - the same kind of twist he mocked as being out of a soap opera - but maybe he was too proud of breaking the case. Too offended, somehow, on Lestat's behalf. He felt like a fictional character.
He has his list of complaints. His objections, some of which question themselves all over again in light of perspective, time, even guilt, and others are blaring, rageful, the scattered remains of torn pages. A symphony of feeling. The story of his turning now escaping containment, escaping him, out into the world to do what it wants. The structure of the chronicle itself, one bad thing after the next.
And then, Louis' words. Louis' clarity. Louis in New Orleans, who was not merely passing through. Later, Lestat may revel in having a fandom, may seek comfort in the notoriety while choking on it, may wear villainy as a costume, as inspiration, but for now, it's enough that the one person in the whole world who matters to him seems to have benefited the most from Molloy's championing.
And he doesn't hate having a fan.
A turn before he heads into the shadows, a mock bow, and then, even to trained vampire eyes, vanishing into the trees as swift as a jaguar. Again, it would be much cooler of him to leave it there. It's the crushing loneliness that ruins it.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
Maybe the most. In quantity, quality. A reflex, nearly, to dangle a carrot, point out his virtues, but he doesn't linger. What, is he going to take Armand's abandoned fledgling under his wing? He would prefer to adopt the role of fun uncle (or wine aunt) than daddy in this particular instance. Maybe the occasional cool trick.
Depending. Daniel has what he needs to get by, and Lestat moves past it, moves past this talk of Great Conversions, even though it feels to him like it's going to become something he may need to catch up on about, after his long reclusive seventy-seven years. Which brings them to,
"I don't want a revision," and Lestat abruptly in front of Molloy, hands out to touch his leather jacket, straighten it unnecessarily. "Is that how you imagine my story, crammed into the footnotes of another?"
no subject
Daniel knows that. Daniel heard (and recorded, and printed) tales of his abuse, his rage, his passionate chaos. Daniel is danger here, perhaps even more than in that alley with two angry opponents wanting to bring him to justice for exposing their world. And yet when Lestat film-edit blinks his way to being there, touching him with a silken threat, he feels energized instead of terrified.
A big problem for him. Always has been. Something looks like it's going to be an awful time and he goes I bet it'd be cool, though. Like leaning against the counter and asking Louis to show him his fangs again. Like fucking drugs.
This'll kill me, maybe, but it'll feel good.
"I don't want to imagine your story," he says, not pulling away. "I want sequels and movies and fucking world tours out of your story."
no subject
But: Daniel says this thing, and the sense of a pending change in mood swings around. A smile, blooming slow, displaying only blunt human teeth, and the hands settled on Daniel's jacket tugs it playfully with the throaty chuckle that follows.
"Now you are speaking my language," he says.
He had meant it. He wants to be on television. If his reference point is a little outdated—MTV is not the influence it was, music videos dominate less screens than they used to, and the kind of godlike reverence he has seen ascribed to celebrities means something different in a world with Twitter beef and a cynical societal literacy of pop culture—the sentiment remains.
He rocks back on his heels, and Daniel doesn't have to brace too much to resist being tugged along by accident, and then he is released.
"I'm working on some things," a pivot, heading further away from the lake. Pausing, as if realising just now they are in the middle of the forest—which is fine, but he tips his head to get a sense of direction as he continues. "You will be sure to keep an eye out."
no subject
"I'm already a fan."
For better or for worse. Daniel should hate him, maybe. But even if Lestat rages against what's there in the book, a person crafted from impressions of others who have the worst of complicated connections, Daniel championed him in the end. He thought about leaving the twist out of it - the same kind of twist he mocked as being out of a soap opera - but maybe he was too proud of breaking the case. Too offended, somehow, on Lestat's behalf. He felt like a fictional character.
What a night.
"Thanks for the rescue, Lestat."
no subject
And then, Louis' words. Louis' clarity. Louis in New Orleans, who was not merely passing through. Later, Lestat may revel in having a fandom, may seek comfort in the notoriety while choking on it, may wear villainy as a costume, as inspiration, but for now, it's enough that the one person in the whole world who matters to him seems to have benefited the most from Molloy's championing.
And he doesn't hate having a fan.
A turn before he heads into the shadows, a mock bow, and then, even to trained vampire eyes, vanishing into the trees as swift as a jaguar. Again, it would be much cooler of him to leave it there. It's the crushing loneliness that ruins it.