Like anywhere else let in the world, Paris is a shithole. Daryl hasn't volunteered this opinion aloud, as doing so would be pointless: he isn't ungrateful, and he doesn't actually mind shitholes. The state it's in his familiar to him. The same rot as in America, the same nearly-nothingness as a crumbling trailer in northern Georgia.
Ten years ago he'd probably laugh. He'd look at the remains of what was once luxury, and think See how it feels. Now he thinks very little about it— and that little is permissive. Acknowledging that it's a shame to see things that people cared about destroyed.
He thinks about Alexandria. He thinks about all the skulls in the catacombs, and how each grinning deaths-head is hopeful. She'll survive this, too.
His first cigarette in Europe is handed to him by a painted up girl (maybe) and he accepts it with a light from her (or not-her) match. Far be it from him to turn down hospitality, even when he's suspicious of it. An elbow on a bartop that seems to exist mostly for show; no bartender, no rows of bottles. Some paintings, maybe from museums, maybe just people here did them, he doesn't know. It is and isn't like how it used to be, and it is and it isn't like how it is now, elsewhere. Daryl used to go to bars, and none of them were like this. Daryl used to participate in community events, and none of them were like this. He doesn't know enough about the world to know if this is like it used to be, for some people, or if this is its own creature.
Either way, he knows he is a transient guest. Just until the embers hit his fingers, and the remains of dried blood and dirt stuck there under his nails.
Ten years ago he'd probably laugh. He'd look at the remains of what was once luxury, and think See how it feels. Now he thinks very little about it— and that little is permissive. Acknowledging that it's a shame to see things that people cared about destroyed.
He thinks about Alexandria. He thinks about all the skulls in the catacombs, and how each grinning deaths-head is hopeful. She'll survive this, too.
His first cigarette in Europe is handed to him by a painted up girl (maybe) and he accepts it with a light from her (or not-her) match. Far be it from him to turn down hospitality, even when he's suspicious of it. An elbow on a bartop that seems to exist mostly for show; no bartender, no rows of bottles. Some paintings, maybe from museums, maybe just people here did them, he doesn't know. It is and isn't like how it used to be, and it is and it isn't like how it is now, elsewhere. Daryl used to go to bars, and none of them were like this. Daryl used to participate in community events, and none of them were like this. He doesn't know enough about the world to know if this is like it used to be, for some people, or if this is its own creature.
Either way, he knows he is a transient guest. Just until the embers hit his fingers, and the remains of dried blood and dirt stuck there under his nails.
A few weeks in France has not improved his French. Started at nothing, now he's here, still with nothing. It flows over him as if it wasn't spoken at all, his attention only alighting on the out of context bubble sandwiched inside. Perhaps the man speaks English; it seems plenty of French nationals do, still, impressively holding onto their disdain for foreigners attempting their language even over a decade into the end of the world. But perhaps the man just knows that phrase. Like Daryl only knows Hasta la vista.
weve got jokes
Smoke goes in and out of his lungs. His elbow remains on the bar. Ice chip eyes flicker, barely any movement, but taking him in anyway. He observes the man, in his perfect clothes, with his relaxed posture, displaying his well-groomed and squeaky-clean odds and ends. The way it doesn't quite grease the lens that pulls his strong frame into focus.
Daryl turns away from the man and looks back at the paintings again, and takes another slow pull off the coffin nail. He exhales,
"Weird ghillie suit."
weve got jokes
Smoke goes in and out of his lungs. His elbow remains on the bar. Ice chip eyes flicker, barely any movement, but taking him in anyway. He observes the man, in his perfect clothes, with his relaxed posture, displaying his well-groomed and squeaky-clean odds and ends. The way it doesn't quite grease the lens that pulls his strong frame into focus.
Daryl turns away from the man and looks back at the paintings again, and takes another slow pull off the coffin nail. He exhales,
"Weird ghillie suit."
Edited 2024-06-28 10:03 (UTC)
True that the eyes are a big, blazing hint. Just something about the peepers on the dead, Whether they're walkers, or night walkers. But there's a feeling, too, when it comes to creatures like this. Daryl is a hunter. He doesn't often feel hunted. Especially not when someone simply comes up beside him at a bar.
Anyway. Not bad English. He supposes.
"For a lack of looking anywhere else," he says with a shrug. Experience has taught him that there's little use obfuscating with these types. He can't put a precise name on why, but he can guess. So he makes no bones about it; this place isn't his scene. He doesn't know jack shit about the paintings, but they confuse him less than the things going on out on the floor, which are all fine, but in a language far more mysterious to him than French.
He'd offer a lighter (would he?) but he doesn't actually have one. No manners at all, alas.
Daryl really shouldn't be surprised. Just because there haven't been any sightings at home in ages (blood shooting everywhere, nails digging into his flesh, the wetslickcrack sound of a railroad spike— old stories from the granny who lived at the very end of the street, and her collection of photos of a woman who never changed— high noon, an arm disintegrating in his hand, a voice screaming, screaming) is no reason to think they've been run down everywhere.
Anyway. Not bad English. He supposes.
"For a lack of looking anywhere else," he says with a shrug. Experience has taught him that there's little use obfuscating with these types. He can't put a precise name on why, but he can guess. So he makes no bones about it; this place isn't his scene. He doesn't know jack shit about the paintings, but they confuse him less than the things going on out on the floor, which are all fine, but in a language far more mysterious to him than French.
He'd offer a lighter (would he?) but he doesn't actually have one. No manners at all, alas.
Daryl really shouldn't be surprised. Just because there haven't been any sightings at home in ages (blood shooting everywhere, nails digging into his flesh, the wetslickcrack sound of a railroad spike— old stories from the granny who lived at the very end of the street, and her collection of photos of a woman who never changed— high noon, an arm disintegrating in his hand, a voice screaming, screaming) is no reason to think they've been run down everywhere.
"Good thing he weren't too bad at it."
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.
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.
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.
The nerve gambit fails. Daryl remains steady.
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.
The nerve gambit rolls again.
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."
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."
They have delivered their demands, Claudia and Louis. Lestat went up the stairs ahead of them, and Claudia had sat for a long moment, tense with anger.
He's going to do it again, she is saying now, straight-backed at her dressing table. He's gonna hurt you. Again. It's his nature.
And she is saying this aloud intentionally, perhaps. Louis doesn't doubt she held her tongue when they all three sat in the parlor, and Claudia laid out her share of their rules. What she says aloud is perhaps what she wished to have argued before, an opportunity Louis robbed her of when he returned with Lestat in tow and a warning whispered between their minds.
Who's gonna hurt me, when I got you? was placation, and they both knew it. But it had been enough to quell her objections. Louis had kissed her head. They'd said good night.
And now he is stood in the doorway of the room that had been Lestat's, and then their together, and then his alone. And now—
"We ain't fetching the cabin trunk."
The bruises have darkened. Louis can see every place he put his hands on Lestat's skin. He could see them on his arm as Lestat had sat across from Claudia and him, the purpling print of Louis' fingers above his elbow, the star-splash of red across the bone. Louis crosses the room to touch him there, put fingers to the darkening splotches.
"Get in," with a tip of his head.
History repeating. Lestat stood in this room, bare-chested. A single coffin.
This time, Louis is making the invitation.
He's going to do it again, she is saying now, straight-backed at her dressing table. He's gonna hurt you. Again. It's his nature.
And she is saying this aloud intentionally, perhaps. Louis doesn't doubt she held her tongue when they all three sat in the parlor, and Claudia laid out her share of their rules. What she says aloud is perhaps what she wished to have argued before, an opportunity Louis robbed her of when he returned with Lestat in tow and a warning whispered between their minds.
Who's gonna hurt me, when I got you? was placation, and they both knew it. But it had been enough to quell her objections. Louis had kissed her head. They'd said good night.
And now he is stood in the doorway of the room that had been Lestat's, and then their together, and then his alone. And now—
"We ain't fetching the cabin trunk."
The bruises have darkened. Louis can see every place he put his hands on Lestat's skin. He could see them on his arm as Lestat had sat across from Claudia and him, the purpling print of Louis' fingers above his elbow, the star-splash of red across the bone. Louis crosses the room to touch him there, put fingers to the darkening splotches.
"Get in," with a tip of his head.
History repeating. Lestat stood in this room, bare-chested. A single coffin.
This time, Louis is making the invitation.
I hate you, Louis had said.
But he'd stayed. Six long years of silence and refusal, and Louis had stayed. Had been unable to leave Lestat in the splinters of Antoinette's apartment, and pretend this night had only been one thing.
Lestat wisely makes no comment, no jibe or quip to mark the occasion. The coffin opens smoothly. Lestat looks beautiful within it, all the better for the bruises and scrapes on his pale skin where he reclines on the velvet. Louis is still looking at him as he shucks off shirt, then pants. Louis slips in alongside him naked, leaves the coffin ajar so firelight slants across the lid.
Says nothing, for a long moment. Shifts, hooking an ankle round Lestat's. Touches the tender, bruised skin of his ribs in the near dark, and sighs.
But he'd stayed. Six long years of silence and refusal, and Louis had stayed. Had been unable to leave Lestat in the splinters of Antoinette's apartment, and pretend this night had only been one thing.
Lestat wisely makes no comment, no jibe or quip to mark the occasion. The coffin opens smoothly. Lestat looks beautiful within it, all the better for the bruises and scrapes on his pale skin where he reclines on the velvet. Louis is still looking at him as he shucks off shirt, then pants. Louis slips in alongside him naked, leaves the coffin ajar so firelight slants across the lid.
Says nothing, for a long moment. Shifts, hooking an ankle round Lestat's. Touches the tender, bruised skin of his ribs in the near dark, and sighs.
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.
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.
"I smell like you," and the river, yes, but Lestat fills his senses. Clings to every part of his awareness. Touches him and makes Louis' skin prickle all over, anticipating. Wanting.
His fingers trail along Lestat's skin. Even in this dim light, he knows where the bruising is. Recalls again Lestat's face, bright and pleased in the lamplight. How Louis had grabbed hold of him and Lestat had come up off the bed willing. Eager.
"Any second thoughts?"
A murmur of a question, offered up so quietly.
His fingers trail along Lestat's skin. Even in this dim light, he knows where the bruising is. Recalls again Lestat's face, bright and pleased in the lamplight. How Louis had grabbed hold of him and Lestat had come up off the bed willing. Eager.
"Any second thoughts?"
A murmur of a question, offered up so quietly.
Six years. Lestat has spent six years repenting, in one form or another. Seeking, apparently, this closeness, this return. The ability to put his fingers to Louis' skin again.
Louis breathes. The slant of firelight casts Lestat all in gold, unbearably beautiful. More so for the bruise blossoming at one eyebrow, for the scuff of a bruise a the corner of his mouth.
Silent for years, Louis has been. Holding the deep-rooted, overwhelming force of his love in check. If he had opened his mouth, he might have taken Lestat back sooner.
"Coming back," leads to: "And yeah. The conditions."
How Lestat aligns those stipulations. An agreement between them and Claudia. Not conditions set by Louis and Claudia, to which he agreed. His fingers linger over Lestat's chest, following the bruising the creeps up and up, high enough to peek out from beneath a shirt collar. Gone by morning, most likely.
Louis breathes. The slant of firelight casts Lestat all in gold, unbearably beautiful. More so for the bruise blossoming at one eyebrow, for the scuff of a bruise a the corner of his mouth.
Silent for years, Louis has been. Holding the deep-rooted, overwhelming force of his love in check. If he had opened his mouth, he might have taken Lestat back sooner.
"Coming back," leads to: "And yeah. The conditions."
How Lestat aligns those stipulations. An agreement between them and Claudia. Not conditions set by Louis and Claudia, to which he agreed. His fingers linger over Lestat's chest, following the bruising the creeps up and up, high enough to peek out from beneath a shirt collar. Gone by morning, most likely.
A rippling of tension, wholly separate from the flush of heat that comes from the pressure of fingertips over tender skin.
"I'll hear 'em."
Better Louis than Claudia, who would hear no amendments, who would give no quarter.
Louis can be the fool, listen to how Lestat would nudge and bend their demands. And acquiesce, perhaps. His armor is in tatters, washed away in the river. Lestat is touching him, inviting him closer. Louis feels it, the way he wants to meet him there. The way he wants things to go back to the way they were. To have him, again.
"I'll hear 'em."
Better Louis than Claudia, who would hear no amendments, who would give no quarter.
Louis can be the fool, listen to how Lestat would nudge and bend their demands. And acquiesce, perhaps. His armor is in tatters, washed away in the river. Lestat is touching him, inviting him closer. Louis feels it, the way he wants to meet him there. The way he wants things to go back to the way they were. To have him, again.
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