No matter, Lestat has his own—the delicate click of metal and sharp, diamond hard nails following the flare of flame, an issuing of fresh smoke.
Listens. The charming persistence of superstition gives way—a surprise, like touching something sharp in the dark—to blood, gives way to ash and ember drifting, to animal screams and sharp teeth. He tastes these memories as he tastes the smoke, cigarette held between teeth as he pockets case and lighter, and drags his gaze towards the far painting, which has dust gathering on the top of the frame that someone should remember to clean.
Daryl's heart rate is impressively even.
"Monet painted hundreds of water-lilies," he explains, meanwhile, despite this show of incuriousity—a hand splaying, poised in the air. "Hundreds of paintings, all called 'Water-Lilies', or nearly. More paintings than there are people who could speak to their worth and skill now, I'm sure. But," a wave, a tap of ash, "it's been a long time since anyone could imagine spending a life painting flowers over and over."
A shrug, following the way he has turned into a sideways lean against the bar. "I leave appreciating the decor to my betters. I come to watch the people."
That's a lot of water lily paintings. Imagine if they were all shit.
Daryl slides his gaze over, sidelong. Like maybe he doesn't believe this guy doesn't care about the finer points of decor, seeing how dolled up he is. No easy task, getting into this place— he knows it's not like Alexandria near the start, walls up just in time, protecting people from every getting their hands dirty. It's been over a decade, and even if this man were human, the impeccable styling wouldn't suggest ease. Just control.
"And you're gonna tell me, 'Not too many tourists these days', huh?"
There are other grimy thugs in this place. Mostly security drifting in and out, changing shifts; some petitioners being shuffled into an audience with the British fixer who has situated himself as a pivot point between factions. Daryl had hoped the man would be useful, but he's probably going to have to kill him. He's exhausted with all that, has been since before walking away from the Commonwealth, before Negan, before...
It doesn't matter. He'll do it anyway, if it has to be done. A vampire sizing him up doesn't change that.
This resounding compliment for the works of Claude Monet from this taciturn American with dirt under his nails provokes Lestat into a broader grin, a brief ripple through his poise that seems welcome rather than a mistake. The suspicion in the sidelong glance is absorbed, unaddressed, simply pleased to pull focus from someone who seems a little like they would prefer to be left alone.
In truth, Lestat has had enough oil paintings and the pretentious things certain people might have to say about them, even if he can't help himself now and then. There is someone on the piano, and they are carefully plinking through some Poulenc. (He has notes.) Far more dynamic than a dead man's pond.
But anyway—
"And then you'll say, 'Just passin' through'," Lestat counters, happy to put on his best attempt at drawling Georgian (not that he could guess the state, and also, it was very bad). "Do you wish to dispense with the niceties, Daryl Dixon? I imagine there aren't so many of them out there. But,"
another pull from his cigarette, smoke sucked through his teeth and let out through his nose, "your being new to the place is, I think, your least interesting quality."
Very unfortunate: Daryl likes paintings of flowers, and Katharine Hepburn movies, and a diverse selection of music. Don't tell anyone, please. Focus on things like the vampires he's killed and not anything embarrassing.
The man wins a shift in expression out of him. Mildly offended over the accent. Not much of an actor, is he. (Ha ha. Haaa.)
"'Dunno. How good for my health is anything past the niceties, Fancy?"
Leveled with all the deadpan as everything else. Hearing his full name out of the man tempts his nerves— he could have gotten it from a few places at this point, though. Doesn't mean he plucked it straight out of his head, though Daryl gives himself an internal shake, refusing to just shrug off the possibility because it makes him squirm. Even at the height of his cooperation, Clive (i am making up npc names as i go idk i'll have to write this down somewhere) was modest about what all he could do. Things were kept pocketed until they were used against them, and to this day, Daryl isn't sure what the whole picture was, and hasn't found a better source of information.
"Lestat," he offers with a gesture towards himself, lest Daryl thinks he's just saying more French shit again and not giving a name.
The flickering of memory, impulse, feeling is a colourful variety. Lestat has a habit of seeing Louis in everything and anyone when he wants to, but there are pleasing similarities he can't help but muse over in the space of a second—the little fragilities, that intriguing edge, a firm grapple on certain dispositions. The faint impression that this man might weep if presented with something beautiful enough.
But the vampire murder is first and foremost. Lestat has shifted so that he is leaning back against the bar, able to admire his surroundings more properly.
"You find yourself within a delicate ecosystem, my friend," he says. "So few of your kind are left, and so many of my kind have voracious appetites. I understand that if I wish to see another century, I must become selective. I have not selected you."
A look sidelong, a pressed smile. "I think the little monsters you've met in the past were not so discerning."
Daryl works on his cigarette, and doesn't think about all that much. He's used to sitting in a blind, being patient, blanking out so he can see only the critical details. He had struggled to teach Judith the basics of hunting, because he does a poor job of articulating his mindset. Vanish into the world.
Can't vanish into the last nightclub on Earth. He's stuck here at the bar. A woman is singing, and it's quite nice, though he doesn't recognize the tune, or a word she says.
"Wasn't personal," is what he says, eventually. "They made choices that put them where they ended up. I'd have killed them if they were human, too."
A killer, then. Not in the way the half-maddened and the desperate have become, but a true creature of the current natural order. Lestat flexes a mimicry of piano keys on his free hand, an absent fidget, and pulls back just a little from the way Daryl's mind is now, in a way, playing dead. (Vampires named Clive. This century is the worst.) It can be easy to overwhelm.
"So we have nothing to worry about from each other. C'est bien."
Not true, of course. Daryl is the one making his quiet calculations about Quinn Lastname, which—on the surface, could be messy, with the Englishman having made himself oh so crucial to the order of things, and also tedious, to try to find some form of replacement, but it is a human-eat-human world these days (ha). It pays not to make yourself a villain.
And if Lestat de Lioncourt can learn that, anyone can. His focus shifts across the floor until he sees a familiar figure, occupied in dancing. "A friend, then, or a passing nightmare?" is what he is saying with his mouth, while his voice echoes through the head of this other: something red from the cellar.
He breaks his focus from them and back to Daryl once they detangle from their partner, and move off to the shadows.
A sad world. No one asks Would you have kept all those friends, if they weren't?
But three years and ten different scuba suit configurations say: Yeah, probably. Daryl is a killer, in the way a guard dog is a killer. He can be bribed and befriended like one, too.
"We ain't dreaming," he mutters, as he stubs out the last of his cigarette. No filter, just an empty curl of wrapper. One of the tidier hand rolls he's ever seen. He wonders who gets jobs like that— shining martini glasses, tuning pianos, rolling dozens of cigarettes from tobacco grown in a green house on the roof of some building that used to be on post cards.
He aims to leave. It's not that Lestat isn't interesting. Daryl's got two dozen questions immediately, actually. But this guy isn't his business, and he simply has to stop getting himself entangled with new intrigues. Why this club has a vampire, why he's dressed like that, why he thinks the creatures he's dealt with in America are little monsters—
(C'mon, you could get information out of him.)
He doesn't hear Merle much, anymore. Beth when he's nearly asleep. Rick, when he's (it doesn't matter). A pause.
It's more of an ordinary kind of social kind of sixth sense rather than telepathy or a hunter's instinct that indicates to Lestat that Daryl is beginning the process of extricating himself, glancing aside at crumpled stub of cigarette. And he thought he'd been so polite!
But no, on closer inspection, there isn't fear behind it. Caution, but of a different kind. Entanglements. A hundred problems and betrayals and attachments and dead people. Ghosts, now, whispering to him still.
"The Englishman has gotten comfortable in his position here," Lestat says, and the intent stare he had fixed on Daryl a breath ago now drops down to the end of his smoldering cigarette, nonchalant. "He has effectively managed his own greed until this moment, but it seems the woman you came here with is too tempting of a prospect. Still, removing him removes a problem, and does not present a solution."
Another smile. Something of note: Lestat does not smile insincerely. Chicken feathers in a fox's fangs, sometimes, but here, it is a little more apologetic. Vampires.
"Have a drink with me. Tragic to visit la France and fail to sample the local vintages."
Daryl will never have an investigator's instincts. He wasn't a great cop, back in the Commonwealth. (Memories. When it wasn't miserable and humiliating, it was fun, hanging out with Rosita, the both of them pretending like they were normal people. Donut jokes.) He'll pick up on details, he can watch people, read them, but it's still a lot of fumbling when it comes to the correct steps in initiative.
And so, comically, he feels a pang of regret at the offer and the immediate awareness of the fact that he's going to have to accept. Almost free.
Quiet, then a sigh while he looks at Lestat. Not a subtle one. Why bother. Until he at last tips his chin up, "Yeah, alright."
These silences are very American south in their way; he doesn't have the smooth charm of a grifter, but someone who's spent time in the region will no doubt have met plenty of men like him, living on fringes with their trailers and shotguns and beat-up boats. Communicating through grunts, believing in superstition, keeping away from cities. Appalachia and the bayou don't touch, but there is a bloody stitch running through them, humid and strange.
He waits, instead of bailing like he wants to. An animal instinct makes him restless, but he's old enough now to quell it. Resigned to following the vampire out of the main floor of the club, even— a potentially sensitive discussion wants for no eavesdroppers. Dangerous, sure, but if the guy wants to superspeed chop his head off, it's not going to make too much of a difference where they are.
They do move off the main floor, Lestat making a path with natural runway swagger, less the hunter in the brush as they cut through the clearing. Floating a hand out to touch the hip of the woman singing as they pass under her spotlight, and then off into the shadows through a discreet side door, and not a single glance back otherwise.
(Halfway, some half-starved beautiful person of non-distinct gender coming up the opposite way and wordlessly passing a bottle of red wine to Lestat like a baton, who takes it by the neck. A shy smile to Daryl as they continue on by.)
It isn't long to walk, down some metal stairs and through a door, where a private room awaits. Clearly not personal digs, but something outfitted nicely all the same, antique furniture, glass lamps that cast golden light around. A low table that Lestat puts the bottle down on—green with a paper label tied with string, something made in the last few years as opposed to a taste of the old world—and a cabinet from which he takes a pair of crystal glasses.
"I never saw for myself what became of your homeland, in the end of everything," he is saying, once they have entered the room. "Though I had been in New Orleans for almost a century. I don't suppose you can speak to its current state?"
He knows enough to know Daryl's accent is differently placed, but if he made it all the way to France, who knows where else he's been?
Down they go. Daryl notices little things, people passing him, shy smiles. He makes a distant note that this place is independently interesting to him, but finds himself unable to engage further with that train of thought. It's different than it would be before, and different than even just before Alexandria. He can look at himself and understand without judgement. It's more than he would have ever dreamed, and for an old dog, it's enough.
Pause.
New Orleans, almost a century. How old had Clive been? A hundred, or nearly. He'd said Rolan (feral, rabid, bite weaponized for something far worse) was older, but it threatened credulity. Jocelyn, they never knew. A strange soap bubble of familiarity floating between them, and information that Daryl notes with healthy wariness. (Though still not fear. Bad at being afraid.)
"Underwater," is his answer. There's no note of sympathy in his voice. It's this world, and that's that. "Ain't been in, but near enough. The military dropped napalm on it and who knows how many other cities, at the start. I watched Atlanta go from the rooftop of a shitty bar." He shrugs, and his voice takes a dip towards wry. "You'll be shocked to hear the American solution didn't fix shit, I'm sure."
Deep red poured into two crystal glasses. These little details are second nature, even if the wine will taste like nothing, less than nothing, and to Daryl, will taste like the autumn harvest that made it.
"Very surprising," Lestat agrees, easy and accommodating sarcasm as he offers out a glass.
He has already done his mourning. Even if the buildings still stood, all he has heard of the state of things in America tells a story of the things that made it beautiful now gone. (The people, not the decor.) The lightning in a bottle that is his favourite city, even beyond the private monuments to personal tragedies, wasted with the mass death of too many talented, charming, unique individuals, a history in speech, in music, in spirit.
That he happily killed a lot of them is neither here nor there.
So: no flinch, or at least, none so strong he can't keep it off his face as he sits down in a plush armchair, one long leg crossing over the other.
"There are a lot of philosophical musings about the point of enduring," he says. "Something we all have in common. This sickness has infected the present, the past, and will persist in the future, and all of those little things that make life worth living, blighted and gone. After much circling the point, it seems France has identified a few, as it always has. Good company, and better wine."
A shrug that says: cute. "Is that why you came, or why you have stayed?"
He accepts the glass, and then stands there awkwardly for a little while. Warring with the desire to tell him Let's get on with it, while aware that he's invited socialization by 1) walking down here and 2) saying more than just 'underwater' and leaving it at that.
Sucks to suck, Dixon. He sits down.
Once there, he shrugs a shoulder. "Just wanted to know."
The journey here was arduous, not always deliberate in its pathing; he did not set out from the very edge of North America and say I'm landing in France, he just ... left. It hurt too much to stay. He wants to be home, but home doesn't have a place for him anymore, and that threatens to stir the only fear in him that he has left. Nearly obsolete again, Daryl is. Best that he's out scouting. Sending back battered letters and bursts over the radio. The world is still out here. We aren't the only ones.
He makes a motion with his glass. Like a salute. Close enough to manners before he takes a drink, and thinks nothing at all about the notes and layers. A waste on a man who'd been drinking moonshine since childhood and has half the amount of taste buds as a normal human left because of it.
Wasted on them both. Lestat salutes, and drinks deeply.
No pleasure crosses his face, of course, not about to feign it. The glass is set aside, considering the fragmented path of pain that follows Daryl Dixon from the wilds of post-apocalyptic Georgia to this room in the catacombs of Paris, the echoes of voices, friends gained and lost. Blood spilled. A lot of blood spilled.
Impressive to kill vampires. Useful to dispatch the walkers. Fascinating to sense the warm bodies that Monsieur Dixon has put in the ground to get to where he is, the more-or-less untainted blood spilled into the earth.
"And now you know," Lestat says. "And you have found new lambs to shepherd through the wilderness. What is it you wish for them exactly?"
They can still hear the music a little—to Daryl's ears, just the bones of it, a deep thrum of a beat. To Lestat's, a full melody. It isn't quiet, just muffled, and when he tips his head, it's to half-listen to the current set as he watches Daryl.
Red wine is on the nose. Daryl thinks of drinking glasses of creek water to stave off hunger when they (the far, far past) couldn't afford groceries, and chewing on twigs when they (the less far past) couldn't find food. Lestat has not selected him, but Lestat could change his mind.
"Their cause is their business."
Putting it out there ahead of time. Daryl doesn't believe in God, and the cult-like fawning over Laurent makes him uncomfortable, both on behalf of the kid who's never been able to be a kid, and on behalf of the adults who should all get a fucking grip.
But.
"They helped me. So I'm helping them. I just want to get them where they're going, which means out of Paris without that dickhead," a pause. What's a slur for English people? He has no idea. He continues. Dickhead will have to do. "Trying to get off over it."
"He wants the woman," agreeable, they both know this, but, "which puts the boy in danger."
Simple, as far as predictable chess moves go. Leverage, bait, whatever you might call it. Lestat's eyes flick upwards in a show of thought, but then they glaze, become distracted.
He lifts a hand, pointing to the ceiling, as a small smile plays out on his face.
"I don't know if you can hear it in here," he says. "But that's Marie now, singing. I first heard her while she was serenading the waters off the coast of Jersey. A natural talent, beautiful tone. I only meant to visit her, you know, but she insisted, and so I was forced to deprive the good people of her failing little community of her talents, for the Demimonde's gain."
Whoops, says the twist of his hand, before it lowers, folding with the other in his lap. Refocusing, looking to Daryl. "Fuck Quinn. He will infect this place with his grasping, if not now then later. And it is of importance to me that our little establishment not die with him. It is a haven."
Of many kinds. Songbirds, paintings, shelter, nexus point of factions, trade, gossip. A beating heart.
That is not sure if he likes the way Lestat is elsewhere every so often, even in this short time they've shared space. That he has questions about Marie and her failing little community, if there was any good reason to take only her and let the community fail. That he is curious how Lestat was visiting the coast of Jersey.
A neat basket, bumping into a vampire who would be fine with Quinn out of the way. Temping to just reach out and take it.
"I don't know much about this place," is what he says, instead of digging into anything he's thinking about. "How'd you get here? You a singer too, or something?"
It's a careful balance, indicating in these subtle ways of the breadth of his ability without overwhelming a person. Even this man, who knows of vampires like they're a particularly elusive but verifiable predator, has his limited information and experiences to go off of. Maybe he suspects Lestat can read his mind, for instance. Maybe Lestat has confirmed it already several times. Speaking his thoughts back to him, at a constant, is liable to tip their conversation off-balance.
And he's enjoying their conversation, especially now that it swerves back to him, evoking a broader smile. "A singer, oui," agreeably, why not? He sings. "Or if we need a man on the piano, I can be convinced to serve," pressing hand to breast. Magnanimous.
"I came to Paris because it was my home, once," is an extremely pared down version of a story for the sake of a mortal who hardly needs a rundown on vampire pseudo-politics, "and some of our renegade immortals were making a mess of things. Only young ones, others infected, none respecting the new natural order we find ourselves in. Removing them was a necessary evil," picking up his glass, a gesture, "and then, here I am."
He doesn't drink further, just keeps the glass as a prop for the moment. "The Demimonde advertised itself as a place to go when there is something you need if you have something to give. I need blood to sustain myself and no desire to meaningfully contribute to a mass extinction event and I protect those willing to be generous."
Another smile, as he adds, "And the exceptionally talented. I have my favourites, blood or no blood. What did you come to trade, Monsieur Dixon?"
"Sounds like you're just an ordinary guy trying to make it."
A hint of a joke in his smoke-rough voice. No one left in this world is an ordinary guy, much less a vampire. But either Lestat is trying to be, or he understands the value of operating as honestly as possible. Every step is a complication in the apocalypse. Trying to keep steady shows awareness, at least.
Then—
"We had drugs." Flat. "Speed mostly, some ecstasy. Pretty old, gonna take hours to kick in. If that ends up passed around, just keep an eye out. Figure you know, but this guy who was going around with us for a while, he drained some asshole who turned out to be cranked on a whole vet's office worth of ketamine. He puked up a perfect bloody jell-o mold of his small intestine."
I wasn't always a nun, said Isabelle as she dragged out her contraband, worth tens of thousands in the old world. Daryl could have popped a rib laughing, if he were the type to laugh anymore. He swallows more wine.
"But now he wants the nun. So there's no deal to be made."
And in return, Lestat's attention, a crinkle of amusement for the warning and the twitch of his eyebrows indicates a much appreciated.
A flex of his fingers, subtle agreement. "Does the good sister know where she wants to go?"
Good thing Daryl doesn't buy the cause, or else he might find himself catching some strays at the slightly tense way Lestat holds his mouth when he refers to her affiliations. Not hostile, really, just distaste.
Other questions filed away for when they both have a mutual understand of the thing that needs to happen.
The 'Nest' is ... somewhere. Maybe they've said, in French, discussing it over Daryl's head. He hasn't needed to know the specifics and wouldn't understand them anyway, and he hasn't asked. Now, it's useful, because he can't betray them even if his mind is read. It doesn't matter if Daryl believes or not — and he doesn't — but they're allowed to have their strongholds and safe havens, and should be allowed to get there without Quinn or whoever else trying to burn them down.
Paris is too dense to sneak out of or around in that direction. It's safest to go by boat, and because of that, there are checkpoints. Daryl gets it. He'd put in checkpoints, too. But between Quinn wanting Isabelle to stay, and one of the major factions here having a big problem with the religious nutjobs, the checkpoints pose a major hurdle. They'll need somebody to waive them through.
Or they checkpoints need to be empty by force. Daryl would prefer to just have a pass, though.
A hummed sound, "Comme ci, comme ça," and the inflection and context does the translation work: maybe.
"Degradation, erosion, the decline of things. We live in that now, and need to guard against this slow annihilation. You remove Quinn, and we open our doors tomorrow, we have a wonderful time, but his deals are undone. Our clientele breaks apart. Not tomorrow, but eventually. And he has friends, you know, who would not take too kindly to his removal."
But, a shrug. "If he and his closest are removed with discretion, if there is no chance of reprisal, then there's time to find another Quinn. I," a roll of his wrist, gesturing to himself, "try to limit my day to day interferences." A tip of his head. "Like you do."
And maybe, he's just as bad at avoiding it.
"Stay a while," Lestat says. "After they go, say you will help ensure the continuation of this place. I will assist you in your shepherding. And wolf killing."
"I can't stay forever. Ain't my scene, and ain't my lifespan besides."
A horrible little lie that Daryl barely realizes is a lie. Wouldn't it be nice? To experience the kind of culture you would have been killed for interacting with? The kind you can't let yourself be curious about? Isn't it funny, a sick kind of irony, that the young man you had a crush on was called Jesus, and you find this club trying to help a nun? You know Rick would be—
Daryl has a good poker face.
"You gotta figure out what can move in and fix the holes Quinn's absence will leave. I can handle him, I can handle his friends. The rest of it I'm no good at."
"I said a while," Lestat says, breezily, smoothing out some invisible wrinkle at his knee. "Not forever." Amusement, reaching his eyes. "Even if you asked nicely."
Daryl's poker face is good. Lestat's is—fine. That he catches a thought that is something he would very much like to sink his teeth into only flickers across his expression, a sharpening of his focus and the narrow lifting of the corner of his mouth at its scarred side, showing only the expected set of blunt white teeth.
Who's Rick?
"I say you can be useful to me, to this place. If I am wrong, then I've made a bad deal. I'll live with it."
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no subject
Listens. The charming persistence of superstition gives way—a surprise, like touching something sharp in the dark—to blood, gives way to ash and ember drifting, to animal screams and sharp teeth. He tastes these memories as he tastes the smoke, cigarette held between teeth as he pockets case and lighter, and drags his gaze towards the far painting, which has dust gathering on the top of the frame that someone should remember to clean.
Daryl's heart rate is impressively even.
"Monet painted hundreds of water-lilies," he explains, meanwhile, despite this show of incuriousity—a hand splaying, poised in the air. "Hundreds of paintings, all called 'Water-Lilies', or nearly. More paintings than there are people who could speak to their worth and skill now, I'm sure. But," a wave, a tap of ash, "it's been a long time since anyone could imagine spending a life painting flowers over and over."
A shrug, following the way he has turned into a sideways lean against the bar. "I leave appreciating the decor to my betters. I come to watch the people."
no subject
That's a lot of water lily paintings. Imagine if they were all shit.
Daryl slides his gaze over, sidelong. Like maybe he doesn't believe this guy doesn't care about the finer points of decor, seeing how dolled up he is. No easy task, getting into this place— he knows it's not like Alexandria near the start, walls up just in time, protecting people from every getting their hands dirty. It's been over a decade, and even if this man were human, the impeccable styling wouldn't suggest ease. Just control.
"And you're gonna tell me, 'Not too many tourists these days', huh?"
There are other grimy thugs in this place. Mostly security drifting in and out, changing shifts; some petitioners being shuffled into an audience with the British fixer who has situated himself as a pivot point between factions. Daryl had hoped the man would be useful, but he's probably going to have to kill him. He's exhausted with all that, has been since before walking away from the Commonwealth, before Negan, before...
It doesn't matter. He'll do it anyway, if it has to be done. A vampire sizing him up doesn't change that.
no subject
In truth, Lestat has had enough oil paintings and the pretentious things certain people might have to say about them, even if he can't help himself now and then. There is someone on the piano, and they are carefully plinking through some Poulenc. (He has notes.) Far more dynamic than a dead man's pond.
But anyway—
"And then you'll say, 'Just passin' through'," Lestat counters, happy to put on his best attempt at drawling Georgian (not that he could guess the state, and also, it was very bad). "Do you wish to dispense with the niceties, Daryl Dixon? I imagine there aren't so many of them out there. But,"
another pull from his cigarette, smoke sucked through his teeth and let out through his nose, "your being new to the place is, I think, your least interesting quality."
no subject
The man wins a shift in expression out of him. Mildly offended over the accent. Not much of an actor, is he. (Ha ha. Haaa.)
"'Dunno. How good for my health is anything past the niceties, Fancy?"
Leveled with all the deadpan as everything else. Hearing his full name out of the man tempts his nerves— he could have gotten it from a few places at this point, though. Doesn't mean he plucked it straight out of his head, though Daryl gives himself an internal shake, refusing to just shrug off the possibility because it makes him squirm. Even at the height of his cooperation, Clive (i am making up npc names as i go idk i'll have to write this down somewhere) was modest about what all he could do. Things were kept pocketed until they were used against them, and to this day, Daryl isn't sure what the whole picture was, and hasn't found a better source of information.
The nerve gambit fails. Daryl remains steady.
no subject
The flickering of memory, impulse, feeling is a colourful variety. Lestat has a habit of seeing Louis in everything and anyone when he wants to, but there are pleasing similarities he can't help but muse over in the space of a second—the little fragilities, that intriguing edge, a firm grapple on certain dispositions. The faint impression that this man might weep if presented with something beautiful enough.
But the vampire murder is first and foremost. Lestat has shifted so that he is leaning back against the bar, able to admire his surroundings more properly.
"You find yourself within a delicate ecosystem, my friend," he says. "So few of your kind are left, and so many of my kind have voracious appetites. I understand that if I wish to see another century, I must become selective. I have not selected you."
A look sidelong, a pressed smile. "I think the little monsters you've met in the past were not so discerning."
no subject
Hm.
Daryl works on his cigarette, and doesn't think about all that much. He's used to sitting in a blind, being patient, blanking out so he can see only the critical details. He had struggled to teach Judith the basics of hunting, because he does a poor job of articulating his mindset. Vanish into the world.
Can't vanish into the last nightclub on Earth. He's stuck here at the bar. A woman is singing, and it's quite nice, though he doesn't recognize the tune, or a word she says.
"Wasn't personal," is what he says, eventually. "They made choices that put them where they ended up. I'd have killed them if they were human, too."
no subject
A killer, then. Not in the way the half-maddened and the desperate have become, but a true creature of the current natural order. Lestat flexes a mimicry of piano keys on his free hand, an absent fidget, and pulls back just a little from the way Daryl's mind is now, in a way, playing dead. (Vampires named Clive. This century is the worst.) It can be easy to overwhelm.
"So we have nothing to worry about from each other. C'est bien."
Not true, of course. Daryl is the one making his quiet calculations about Quinn Lastname, which—on the surface, could be messy, with the Englishman having made himself oh so crucial to the order of things, and also tedious, to try to find some form of replacement, but it is a human-eat-human world these days (ha). It pays not to make yourself a villain.
And if Lestat de Lioncourt can learn that, anyone can. His focus shifts across the floor until he sees a familiar figure, occupied in dancing. "A friend, then, or a passing nightmare?" is what he is saying with his mouth, while his voice echoes through the head of this other: something red from the cellar.
He breaks his focus from them and back to Daryl once they detangle from their partner, and move off to the shadows.
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But three years and ten different scuba suit configurations say: Yeah, probably. Daryl is a killer, in the way a guard dog is a killer. He can be bribed and befriended like one, too.
"We ain't dreaming," he mutters, as he stubs out the last of his cigarette. No filter, just an empty curl of wrapper. One of the tidier hand rolls he's ever seen. He wonders who gets jobs like that— shining martini glasses, tuning pianos, rolling dozens of cigarettes from tobacco grown in a green house on the roof of some building that used to be on post cards.
He aims to leave. It's not that Lestat isn't interesting. Daryl's got two dozen questions immediately, actually. But this guy isn't his business, and he simply has to stop getting himself entangled with new intrigues. Why this club has a vampire, why he's dressed like that, why he thinks the creatures he's dealt with in America are little monsters—
(C'mon, you could get information out of him.)
He doesn't hear Merle much, anymore. Beth when he's nearly asleep. Rick, when he's (it doesn't matter). A pause.
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But no, on closer inspection, there isn't fear behind it. Caution, but of a different kind. Entanglements. A hundred problems and betrayals and attachments and dead people. Ghosts, now, whispering to him still.
"The Englishman has gotten comfortable in his position here," Lestat says, and the intent stare he had fixed on Daryl a breath ago now drops down to the end of his smoldering cigarette, nonchalant. "He has effectively managed his own greed until this moment, but it seems the woman you came here with is too tempting of a prospect. Still, removing him removes a problem, and does not present a solution."
Another smile. Something of note: Lestat does not smile insincerely. Chicken feathers in a fox's fangs, sometimes, but here, it is a little more apologetic. Vampires.
"Have a drink with me. Tragic to visit la France and fail to sample the local vintages."
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And so, comically, he feels a pang of regret at the offer and the immediate awareness of the fact that he's going to have to accept. Almost free.
Quiet, then a sigh while he looks at Lestat. Not a subtle one. Why bother. Until he at last tips his chin up, "Yeah, alright."
These silences are very American south in their way; he doesn't have the smooth charm of a grifter, but someone who's spent time in the region will no doubt have met plenty of men like him, living on fringes with their trailers and shotguns and beat-up boats. Communicating through grunts, believing in superstition, keeping away from cities. Appalachia and the bayou don't touch, but there is a bloody stitch running through them, humid and strange.
He waits, instead of bailing like he wants to. An animal instinct makes him restless, but he's old enough now to quell it. Resigned to following the vampire out of the main floor of the club, even— a potentially sensitive discussion wants for no eavesdroppers. Dangerous, sure, but if the guy wants to superspeed chop his head off, it's not going to make too much of a difference where they are.
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(Halfway, some half-starved beautiful person of non-distinct gender coming up the opposite way and wordlessly passing a bottle of red wine to Lestat like a baton, who takes it by the neck. A shy smile to Daryl as they continue on by.)
It isn't long to walk, down some metal stairs and through a door, where a private room awaits. Clearly not personal digs, but something outfitted nicely all the same, antique furniture, glass lamps that cast golden light around. A low table that Lestat puts the bottle down on—green with a paper label tied with string, something made in the last few years as opposed to a taste of the old world—and a cabinet from which he takes a pair of crystal glasses.
"I never saw for myself what became of your homeland, in the end of everything," he is saying, once they have entered the room. "Though I had been in New Orleans for almost a century. I don't suppose you can speak to its current state?"
He knows enough to know Daryl's accent is differently placed, but if he made it all the way to France, who knows where else he's been?
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Pause.
New Orleans, almost a century. How old had Clive been? A hundred, or nearly. He'd said Rolan (feral, rabid, bite weaponized for something far worse) was older, but it threatened credulity. Jocelyn, they never knew. A strange soap bubble of familiarity floating between them, and information that Daryl notes with healthy wariness. (Though still not fear. Bad at being afraid.)
"Underwater," is his answer. There's no note of sympathy in his voice. It's this world, and that's that. "Ain't been in, but near enough. The military dropped napalm on it and who knows how many other cities, at the start. I watched Atlanta go from the rooftop of a shitty bar." He shrugs, and his voice takes a dip towards wry. "You'll be shocked to hear the American solution didn't fix shit, I'm sure."
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"Very surprising," Lestat agrees, easy and accommodating sarcasm as he offers out a glass.
He has already done his mourning. Even if the buildings still stood, all he has heard of the state of things in America tells a story of the things that made it beautiful now gone. (The people, not the decor.) The lightning in a bottle that is his favourite city, even beyond the private monuments to personal tragedies, wasted with the mass death of too many talented, charming, unique individuals, a history in speech, in music, in spirit.
That he happily killed a lot of them is neither here nor there.
So: no flinch, or at least, none so strong he can't keep it off his face as he sits down in a plush armchair, one long leg crossing over the other.
"There are a lot of philosophical musings about the point of enduring," he says. "Something we all have in common. This sickness has infected the present, the past, and will persist in the future, and all of those little things that make life worth living, blighted and gone. After much circling the point, it seems France has identified a few, as it always has. Good company, and better wine."
A shrug that says: cute. "Is that why you came, or why you have stayed?"
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Sucks to suck, Dixon. He sits down.
Once there, he shrugs a shoulder. "Just wanted to know."
The journey here was arduous, not always deliberate in its pathing; he did not set out from the very edge of North America and say I'm landing in France, he just ... left. It hurt too much to stay. He wants to be home, but home doesn't have a place for him anymore, and that threatens to stir the only fear in him that he has left. Nearly obsolete again, Daryl is. Best that he's out scouting. Sending back battered letters and bursts over the radio. The world is still out here. We aren't the only ones.
He makes a motion with his glass. Like a salute. Close enough to manners before he takes a drink, and thinks nothing at all about the notes and layers. A waste on a man who'd been drinking moonshine since childhood and has half the amount of taste buds as a normal human left because of it.
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No pleasure crosses his face, of course, not about to feign it. The glass is set aside, considering the fragmented path of pain that follows Daryl Dixon from the wilds of post-apocalyptic Georgia to this room in the catacombs of Paris, the echoes of voices, friends gained and lost. Blood spilled. A lot of blood spilled.
Impressive to kill vampires. Useful to dispatch the walkers. Fascinating to sense the warm bodies that Monsieur Dixon has put in the ground to get to where he is, the more-or-less untainted blood spilled into the earth.
"And now you know," Lestat says. "And you have found new lambs to shepherd through the wilderness. What is it you wish for them exactly?"
They can still hear the music a little—to Daryl's ears, just the bones of it, a deep thrum of a beat. To Lestat's, a full melody. It isn't quiet, just muffled, and when he tips his head, it's to half-listen to the current set as he watches Daryl.
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"Their cause is their business."
Putting it out there ahead of time. Daryl doesn't believe in God, and the cult-like fawning over Laurent makes him uncomfortable, both on behalf of the kid who's never been able to be a kid, and on behalf of the adults who should all get a fucking grip.
But.
"They helped me. So I'm helping them. I just want to get them where they're going, which means out of Paris without that dickhead," a pause. What's a slur for English people? He has no idea. He continues. Dickhead will have to do. "Trying to get off over it."
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Simple, as far as predictable chess moves go. Leverage, bait, whatever you might call it. Lestat's eyes flick upwards in a show of thought, but then they glaze, become distracted.
He lifts a hand, pointing to the ceiling, as a small smile plays out on his face.
"I don't know if you can hear it in here," he says. "But that's Marie now, singing. I first heard her while she was serenading the waters off the coast of Jersey. A natural talent, beautiful tone. I only meant to visit her, you know, but she insisted, and so I was forced to deprive the good people of her failing little community of her talents, for the Demimonde's gain."
Whoops, says the twist of his hand, before it lowers, folding with the other in his lap. Refocusing, looking to Daryl. "Fuck Quinn. He will infect this place with his grasping, if not now then later. And it is of importance to me that our little establishment not die with him. It is a haven."
Of many kinds. Songbirds, paintings, shelter, nexus point of factions, trade, gossip. A beating heart.
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That is not sure if he likes the way Lestat is elsewhere every so often, even in this short time they've shared space. That he has questions about Marie and her failing little community, if there was any good reason to take only her and let the community fail. That he is curious how Lestat was visiting the coast of Jersey.
A neat basket, bumping into a vampire who would be fine with Quinn out of the way. Temping to just reach out and take it.
"I don't know much about this place," is what he says, instead of digging into anything he's thinking about. "How'd you get here? You a singer too, or something?"
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And he's enjoying their conversation, especially now that it swerves back to him, evoking a broader smile. "A singer, oui," agreeably, why not? He sings. "Or if we need a man on the piano, I can be convinced to serve," pressing hand to breast. Magnanimous.
"I came to Paris because it was my home, once," is an extremely pared down version of a story for the sake of a mortal who hardly needs a rundown on vampire pseudo-politics, "and some of our renegade immortals were making a mess of things. Only young ones, others infected, none respecting the new natural order we find ourselves in. Removing them was a necessary evil," picking up his glass, a gesture, "and then, here I am."
He doesn't drink further, just keeps the glass as a prop for the moment. "The Demimonde advertised itself as a place to go when there is something you need if you have something to give. I need blood to sustain myself and no desire to meaningfully contribute to a mass extinction event and I protect those willing to be generous."
Another smile, as he adds, "And the exceptionally talented. I have my favourites, blood or no blood. What did you come to trade, Monsieur Dixon?"
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A hint of a joke in his smoke-rough voice. No one left in this world is an ordinary guy, much less a vampire. But either Lestat is trying to be, or he understands the value of operating as honestly as possible. Every step is a complication in the apocalypse. Trying to keep steady shows awareness, at least.
Then—
"We had drugs." Flat. "Speed mostly, some ecstasy. Pretty old, gonna take hours to kick in. If that ends up passed around, just keep an eye out. Figure you know, but this guy who was going around with us for a while, he drained some asshole who turned out to be cranked on a whole vet's office worth of ketamine. He puked up a perfect bloody jell-o mold of his small intestine."
I wasn't always a nun, said Isabelle as she dragged out her contraband, worth tens of thousands in the old world. Daryl could have popped a rib laughing, if he were the type to laugh anymore. He swallows more wine.
"But now he wants the nun. So there's no deal to be made."
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And in return, Lestat's attention, a crinkle of amusement for the warning and the twitch of his eyebrows indicates a much appreciated.
A flex of his fingers, subtle agreement. "Does the good sister know where she wants to go?"
Good thing Daryl doesn't buy the cause, or else he might find himself catching some strays at the slightly tense way Lestat holds his mouth when he refers to her affiliations. Not hostile, really, just distaste.
Other questions filed away for when they both have a mutual understand of the thing that needs to happen.
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The 'Nest' is ... somewhere. Maybe they've said, in French, discussing it over Daryl's head. He hasn't needed to know the specifics and wouldn't understand them anyway, and he hasn't asked. Now, it's useful, because he can't betray them even if his mind is read. It doesn't matter if Daryl believes or not — and he doesn't — but they're allowed to have their strongholds and safe havens, and should be allowed to get there without Quinn or whoever else trying to burn them down.
Paris is too dense to sneak out of or around in that direction. It's safest to go by boat, and because of that, there are checkpoints. Daryl gets it. He'd put in checkpoints, too. But between Quinn wanting Isabelle to stay, and one of the major factions here having a big problem with the religious nutjobs, the checkpoints pose a major hurdle. They'll need somebody to waive them through.
Or they checkpoints need to be empty by force. Daryl would prefer to just have a pass, though.
"Does this place fall apart without him?"
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"Degradation, erosion, the decline of things. We live in that now, and need to guard against this slow annihilation. You remove Quinn, and we open our doors tomorrow, we have a wonderful time, but his deals are undone. Our clientele breaks apart. Not tomorrow, but eventually. And he has friends, you know, who would not take too kindly to his removal."
But, a shrug. "If he and his closest are removed with discretion, if there is no chance of reprisal, then there's time to find another Quinn. I," a roll of his wrist, gesturing to himself, "try to limit my day to day interferences." A tip of his head. "Like you do."
And maybe, he's just as bad at avoiding it.
"Stay a while," Lestat says. "After they go, say you will help ensure the continuation of this place. I will assist you in your shepherding. And wolf killing."
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A horrible little lie that Daryl barely realizes is a lie. Wouldn't it be nice? To experience the kind of culture you would have been killed for interacting with? The kind you can't let yourself be curious about? Isn't it funny, a sick kind of irony, that the young man you had a crush on was called Jesus, and you find this club trying to help a nun? You know Rick would be—
Daryl has a good poker face.
"You gotta figure out what can move in and fix the holes Quinn's absence will leave. I can handle him, I can handle his friends. The rest of it I'm no good at."
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Daryl's poker face is good. Lestat's is—fine. That he catches a thought that is something he would very much like to sink his teeth into only flickers across his expression, a sharpening of his focus and the narrow lifting of the corner of his mouth at its scarred side, showing only the expected set of blunt white teeth.
Who's Rick?
"I say you can be useful to me, to this place. If I am wrong, then I've made a bad deal. I'll live with it."
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