Daryl is a difficult one to pull in. Not inclined to adoration; he doesn't resist so much as side-step, and it has nothing to do with awareness. Instead, a long-ingrained habit of turning himself away from interest, like a dog that's been trained out of running towards food. He doesn't think anything about it.
Which is not to say the performance doesn't retain his attention. It does. He likes it, and though the getup Lestat is sporting doesn't do anything for him, he enjoys the way he performs. Reminds him of an old movie, the only kind that public broadcasting had the rights for even while the rest of the world moved on. Black and white musicals on during the day, giving him something to pay attention to besides the everything of his surroundings.
Would Beth like this place? Would artistic Europeans accept a country girl with her guitar and lilting soprano? She played the piano sometimes (he hears her confident but inexpert plinking, back in that lonely funeral home), but not this good. A clear voice singing her own arrangements of Tom Waits song, sounding full and haunting in the echoing acoustics of the prison, a southern siren. Daryl sees Rick's hands, fidgeting with his watch. He used to stand around in the common area and listen to Beth as she wandered and soothed Judith, like he was trying to absorb domesticity he was no longer suited for.
It is stressed, in Daryl's head. He has come a long way, and he's still not sure if he's gotten anywhere worth while, if he should have left, if he should have kept going further, if he should have let himself drown. Being away from those who shaped him into a real person makes him feel formless again, but he knows he can't go back until he understands... something. There's no place for him where he wants to be. It's not their fault. He isn't owed.
Memories, like light refracted on water. The people that have come and gone, the little affections, associations. A songbird. A set of hands that look like they've permanently taken bruises.
Lestat absorbs it all, a busy fragment of his mind as he commits to crooning heartbreak. The resistance he feels from Daryl doesn't compel him to put pressure on it, not particularly—it's enough that the human enjoys his voice, that it makes him think of things that hurt his heart.
A preference for flannel and unshaven throats and rough hands, he wonders, or simply signifiers of something more crucial?
He has read every book in Paris, watched every existing reel of film, talked to everyone of any interested. Novelty is as much a craving as blood.
Who's Rick? comes his voice, blooming tenderly at the back of Daryl's mind. There is no real way to minimise a mortal's alarm at such invasions besides exposure, but Lestat's echoed voice is about as gentle as it gets.
A sly smile, cast his way, flicked across the room.
A startle like a wolf, too still, going from alert to ready, the voice in his mind and traveling up his spine like a shiver, too. He looks at Lestat, and looks at Coco, who's sliding a drink over to him.
"I'm no good with it," he says to her (that seems right), and she smiles and takes a generous sip, leaving the half-sphere glass between them to share. Piano kicks up, I've got, I've got you. Lestat is much better than Beth, or the woman who used to play for church, the few services he went.
Who's Rick.
The question (the confirmation, of what Lestat can do) is laughable, for how large Rick looms over who Daryl is. Even though he knows — he knows — Rick would look at it with kindly pity. The whole of their world from rural Georgia to Atlanta to Washington DC, carved in his image. Just some guy, some regular ass cop, who forced reality into compliance.
Until he didn't.
Who's Rick. Gunpowder, uneven laughter, blood, smoke. Rick is gone. Rick is flashes of You're my brother, the best and worst thing he'd ever heard, Rick is Lori and Jessie and Michonne, Rick is helping Michonne with RJ, is hearing her say I know you lost something, too, and Daryl never, never speaking of it, not even then, not even to her.
Rick is gone, but it wouldn't matter anyway. Rick is safe, because even if Rick wasn't gone, Daryl was never going to say anything.
Not that Lestat would ever describe Louis in this way, but plenty of others would have. No longer, of course, a strange angel of a man in his own corner of this ruined planet, but lifetimes ago. The thought is fleeting.
But something else, less intrusive than his voice spooling alien words through Daryl's mind—or, well, that's subjective, but nonetheless, something that is more feeling than thought. Daryl will become aware of it like an invisible string between them, a temporary sense of connection that is formed, on some other plane of existence, between a common feeling. Like the lowest string on a guitar, gently thrummed, allowed its reverberating.
Empathy. Loss. Not just loss, but a specific kind. A similar texture.
The song is ending. And I, and I, and I, spooling out into vocalisation that feels too intimate, always, purred through the speakers, and then the finishing tinkle of piano in its minor key. The round of applause sparkles through the chamber, and Lestat's mood wrenches from his performance to toss a pleased smile about the place.
That one, a clearer instruction, and Daryl's eyes will land on where a woman is stepping into the club, looking a little out of place herself. Ordinary clothes, hair braided tight, but has clearly been here before when she picks her way to the bar, keeping to the fringes. She has a boat.
Piano, again, this time no song, encouraging the beginnings of some conversation to reenter the atmosphere. Lestat maintains his preferred mood, dark and romantic, eyes now closing, as if this is for himself.
Daryl recognizes empathy, but not as something that he's allowed to receive. It makes him balk worse than the initial intrusion, a shuttering - useless against a vampire's powers, but that flinch is there, shame, the same kind that made him turn away from open interest, only cranked up much higher.
There is nothing he needs empathy for, you see. No commiseration necessary. He is fine, because he has freed himself of old hate. His brother might have killed him, or brought him to the edge to ensure he learned; their father would have killed him. Daryl, because it was all he knew, took on these attitudes as well. He would have had them for his entire life if the world hadn't ended. How fucking pathetic. A man who needed the end of everything to be honest inside his own head.
It's too late for anything else, but it's enough. It's more than he ever thought possible, and he's grateful. He's grateful for Rick, too. And if by some trick of fate, Rick is still out there, then he wants Rick back with his wife and his kids. The pain of that will be nothing, nothing, compared to the relief of that family back together.
That one has the boat. Daryl takes a drink, catching the very edge of a lipstick stain, and asks Coco about the lady with the braid.
Good intel. Thoughts of identity slip away—
Sorry, distinct and clumsy. Whoever it is.
Rick is gone, and it doesn't matter anyway, but Lestat is... a real person. A ridiculous person, but real. Daryl is just an old hunting dog. Fortunately, he's an old hunting dog with some good shit to trade.
The thought, delivered so gracelessly, has Lestat smile to himself at his piano.
And Daryl is left in peace to conduct his business. The woman with the braid is Narae, and her boat is called The Typhoon, and travels up and down the Seine, transporting all kinds of things. There are quite a few boatman like her (well, grading on the scale of post-apocalyptic numbers) and, like many of them, she has no strong affiliations to the people who man the checkpoints, but has a vested interest in not making herself too much of a problem.
But Daryl has good shit to trade and she has been invited here especially for Lestat's set, primed to receive a deal without asking the kinds of questions that may prove problematic. At least, not for tonight.
Lestat sings a little more. Some Tori Amos, some Billy Joel, people-pleasers. A more American repertoire than is usually enjoyed in the Demimonde, no modern French artists on offer tonight. Maybe it's for Daryl. It would be hard to guess that Lestat's latest musical awakening was in the United States without being told directly. Even when he begins his own composition, a Valentinesy sounding love song, old fashioned but timeless melodies, it's in English.
It's been a long time since he was a mortal, and he tries to think if he ever thought: it's too late for me. He thinks of Nicki instead. A brilliant violinist who picked up the instrument at age 20, and everyone said what he repeated, that he started too old to become the maestro he longed to be. Lestat telling him over and over again how wonderful he played never helped. Perhaps it's like that. Still, they had each other, for a time.
Whoever it is. Quite so, whoever.
When his set finishes, he rises, drinks in the approval like it sustains him. Someone else takes the stage, and Lestat kisses them on the cheek as they pass one another.
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no subject
Which is not to say the performance doesn't retain his attention. It does. He likes it, and though the getup Lestat is sporting doesn't do anything for him, he enjoys the way he performs. Reminds him of an old movie, the only kind that public broadcasting had the rights for even while the rest of the world moved on. Black and white musicals on during the day, giving him something to pay attention to besides the everything of his surroundings.
Would Beth like this place? Would artistic Europeans accept a country girl with her guitar and lilting soprano? She played the piano sometimes (he hears her confident but inexpert plinking, back in that lonely funeral home), but not this good. A clear voice singing her own arrangements of Tom Waits song, sounding full and haunting in the echoing acoustics of the prison, a southern siren. Daryl sees Rick's hands, fidgeting with his watch. He used to stand around in the common area and listen to Beth as she wandered and soothed Judith, like he was trying to absorb domesticity he was no longer suited for.
It is stressed, in Daryl's head. He has come a long way, and he's still not sure if he's gotten anywhere worth while, if he should have left, if he should have kept going further, if he should have let himself drown. Being away from those who shaped him into a real person makes him feel formless again, but he knows he can't go back until he understands... something. There's no place for him where he wants to be. It's not their fault. He isn't owed.
Even if Rick were to come back—
Especially if Rick were to come back.
Lestat has a nice voice, he thinks.
no subject
Lestat absorbs it all, a busy fragment of his mind as he commits to crooning heartbreak. The resistance he feels from Daryl doesn't compel him to put pressure on it, not particularly—it's enough that the human enjoys his voice, that it makes him think of things that hurt his heart.
A preference for flannel and unshaven throats and rough hands, he wonders, or simply signifiers of something more crucial?
He has read every book in Paris, watched every existing reel of film, talked to everyone of any interested. Novelty is as much a craving as blood.
Who's Rick? comes his voice, blooming tenderly at the back of Daryl's mind. There is no real way to minimise a mortal's alarm at such invasions besides exposure, but Lestat's echoed voice is about as gentle as it gets.
A sly smile, cast his way, flicked across the room.
no subject
"I'm no good with it," he says to her (that seems right), and she smiles and takes a generous sip, leaving the half-sphere glass between them to share. Piano kicks up, I've got, I've got you. Lestat is much better than Beth, or the woman who used to play for church, the few services he went.
Who's Rick.
The question (the confirmation, of what Lestat can do) is laughable, for how large Rick looms over who Daryl is. Even though he knows — he knows — Rick would look at it with kindly pity. The whole of their world from rural Georgia to Atlanta to Washington DC, carved in his image. Just some guy, some regular ass cop, who forced reality into compliance.
Until he didn't.
Who's Rick. Gunpowder, uneven laughter, blood, smoke. Rick is gone. Rick is flashes of You're my brother, the best and worst thing he'd ever heard, Rick is Lori and Jessie and Michonne, Rick is helping Michonne with RJ, is hearing her say I know you lost something, too, and Daryl never, never speaking of it, not even then, not even to her.
Rick is gone, but it wouldn't matter anyway. Rick is safe, because even if Rick wasn't gone, Daryl was never going to say anything.
no subject
Not that Lestat would ever describe Louis in this way, but plenty of others would have. No longer, of course, a strange angel of a man in his own corner of this ruined planet, but lifetimes ago. The thought is fleeting.
But something else, less intrusive than his voice spooling alien words through Daryl's mind—or, well, that's subjective, but nonetheless, something that is more feeling than thought. Daryl will become aware of it like an invisible string between them, a temporary sense of connection that is formed, on some other plane of existence, between a common feeling. Like the lowest string on a guitar, gently thrummed, allowed its reverberating.
Empathy. Loss. Not just loss, but a specific kind. A similar texture.
The song is ending. And I, and I, and I, spooling out into vocalisation that feels too intimate, always, purred through the speakers, and then the finishing tinkle of piano in its minor key. The round of applause sparkles through the chamber, and Lestat's mood wrenches from his performance to toss a pleased smile about the place.
That one, a clearer instruction, and Daryl's eyes will land on where a woman is stepping into the club, looking a little out of place herself. Ordinary clothes, hair braided tight, but has clearly been here before when she picks her way to the bar, keeping to the fringes. She has a boat.
Piano, again, this time no song, encouraging the beginnings of some conversation to reenter the atmosphere. Lestat maintains his preferred mood, dark and romantic, eyes now closing, as if this is for himself.
no subject
There is nothing he needs empathy for, you see. No commiseration necessary. He is fine, because he has freed himself of old hate. His brother might have killed him, or brought him to the edge to ensure he learned; their father would have killed him. Daryl, because it was all he knew, took on these attitudes as well. He would have had them for his entire life if the world hadn't ended. How fucking pathetic. A man who needed the end of everything to be honest inside his own head.
It's too late for anything else, but it's enough. It's more than he ever thought possible, and he's grateful. He's grateful for Rick, too. And if by some trick of fate, Rick is still out there, then he wants Rick back with his wife and his kids. The pain of that will be nothing, nothing, compared to the relief of that family back together.
That one has the boat. Daryl takes a drink, catching the very edge of a lipstick stain, and asks Coco about the lady with the braid.
Good intel. Thoughts of identity slip away—
Sorry, distinct and clumsy. Whoever it is.
Rick is gone, and it doesn't matter anyway, but Lestat is... a real person. A ridiculous person, but real. Daryl is just an old hunting dog. Fortunately, he's an old hunting dog with some good shit to trade.
no subject
And Daryl is left in peace to conduct his business. The woman with the braid is Narae, and her boat is called The Typhoon, and travels up and down the Seine, transporting all kinds of things. There are quite a few boatman like her (well, grading on the scale of post-apocalyptic numbers) and, like many of them, she has no strong affiliations to the people who man the checkpoints, but has a vested interest in not making herself too much of a problem.
But Daryl has good shit to trade and she has been invited here especially for Lestat's set, primed to receive a deal without asking the kinds of questions that may prove problematic. At least, not for tonight.
Lestat sings a little more. Some Tori Amos, some Billy Joel, people-pleasers. A more American repertoire than is usually enjoyed in the Demimonde, no modern French artists on offer tonight. Maybe it's for Daryl. It would be hard to guess that Lestat's latest musical awakening was in the United States without being told directly. Even when he begins his own composition, a Valentinesy sounding love song, old fashioned but timeless melodies, it's in English.
It's been a long time since he was a mortal, and he tries to think if he ever thought: it's too late for me. He thinks of Nicki instead. A brilliant violinist who picked up the instrument at age 20, and everyone said what he repeated, that he started too old to become the maestro he longed to be. Lestat telling him over and over again how wonderful he played never helped. Perhaps it's like that. Still, they had each other, for a time.
Whoever it is. Quite so, whoever.
When his set finishes, he rises, drinks in the approval like it sustains him. Someone else takes the stage, and Lestat kisses them on the cheek as they pass one another.