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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.
They are talking in the other room.
And Lestat is in this one, the coffin room that had been his, and then his and Louis', and then Louis'. A slow pacing around that takes him to his dresser. That he can't locate his slippers had been a possible sign that perhaps all his things had been stored away, or discarded, but no: he opens a drawer, and here they are.
They are talking in the other room about him, and Lestat takes off his clothes. The marks on his body—twinging, angrily red, most interesting patterns—will fade within the confines of a coffin and the crawl of the sun in the sky, but for now they persist. He presses his fingers against a particularly lurid spread of damage across his ribcage, and the slow spread of his smile at nothing shows only blunt teeth, and fades off into something more tense. The fire crackling in the hearth.
The pyjama pants he was looking for have that unused smell, but everything has been kept just so. They are still talking in the other room as he puts them on. Six years. One coffin. A most humble homecoming.
By the time he hears Louis approach, Lestat has turned back to the room, a white undershirt now pulled over his chest, being adjusted by the time he is no longer alone.
"Ça va?"
He isn't waiting for an answer, instead gesturing to indicate the uneven chamber. "If I must fetch the cabin trunk from the salon, you can at least help me get it up the stairs."
And Lestat is in this one, the coffin room that had been his, and then his and Louis', and then Louis'. A slow pacing around that takes him to his dresser. That he can't locate his slippers had been a possible sign that perhaps all his things had been stored away, or discarded, but no: he opens a drawer, and here they are.
They are talking in the other room about him, and Lestat takes off his clothes. The marks on his body—twinging, angrily red, most interesting patterns—will fade within the confines of a coffin and the crawl of the sun in the sky, but for now they persist. He presses his fingers against a particularly lurid spread of damage across his ribcage, and the slow spread of his smile at nothing shows only blunt teeth, and fades off into something more tense. The fire crackling in the hearth.
The pyjama pants he was looking for have that unused smell, but everything has been kept just so. They are still talking in the other room as he puts them on. Six years. One coffin. A most humble homecoming.
By the time he hears Louis approach, Lestat has turned back to the room, a white undershirt now pulled over his chest, being adjusted by the time he is no longer alone.
"Ça va?"
He isn't waiting for an answer, instead gesturing to indicate the uneven chamber. "If I must fetch the cabin trunk from the salon, you can at least help me get it up the stairs."
Maybe Monsieur Dixon doesn't recognise his own novelty.
Although there was certainly a time when Paris was crawling with Americans, that is no longer so, and it's been enough years now that the idea of a tourist is a quaint and funny thing. The human race is naturally migratory, compelled to crawl all over the planet, and eventually they will all find their way back to doing so as they rise and die like struggling crops. But, of course, far be it from a respectable Frenchman to ooh and ahh out loud, just because someone is from out of town.
The man that joins him at the empty bar is not so concerned about respectability. Moving through the underground chamber, which gives no sign of any sense of where the sun might be in the sky, or the moon, Lestat's approach is quiet but not stealthy. In amongst all the colour, the feathers and the glitter, tonight he has opted for textures of blacks that are nevertheless as beautiful and eye-catching as everyone else. Broad lapels and the cut of the lower hem have an old fashioned feel to them, even if an undiscerning eye wouldn't be able to pick the era.
But, then, if this era had a fashion, Daryl is currently exemplifying it.
"Ah, barman, une bière pression," as his folded arms come down onto the bar, a leaning as if to seek someone out on the other side. "And another for our guest here."
There is no barman, of course, something of an apology in the smile Lestat sends Daryl's way as he casts a look sidelong. Nevertheless; "C'est cadeau."
Although there was certainly a time when Paris was crawling with Americans, that is no longer so, and it's been enough years now that the idea of a tourist is a quaint and funny thing. The human race is naturally migratory, compelled to crawl all over the planet, and eventually they will all find their way back to doing so as they rise and die like struggling crops. But, of course, far be it from a respectable Frenchman to ooh and ahh out loud, just because someone is from out of town.
The man that joins him at the empty bar is not so concerned about respectability. Moving through the underground chamber, which gives no sign of any sense of where the sun might be in the sky, or the moon, Lestat's approach is quiet but not stealthy. In amongst all the colour, the feathers and the glitter, tonight he has opted for textures of blacks that are nevertheless as beautiful and eye-catching as everyone else. Broad lapels and the cut of the lower hem have an old fashioned feel to them, even if an undiscerning eye wouldn't be able to pick the era.
But, then, if this era had a fashion, Daryl is currently exemplifying it.
"Ah, barman, une bière pression," as his folded arms come down onto the bar, a leaning as if to seek someone out on the other side. "And another for our guest here."
There is no barman, of course, something of an apology in the smile Lestat sends Daryl's way as he casts a look sidelong. Nevertheless; "C'est cadeau."
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)
It's the eyes that tend to get people, blazing blue, like there's a light within. They don't normally understand why, of course, and Lestat's focus immediately sharpens, a pause following as he tips his head. A flicking glance up and down, a short inhale (blood, and unwashed clothing, and mud, and the wilderness) and a broader smile that shows human-seeming blunt teeth.
"A man who knows what he is looking at," and the accent does not ring of someone who just knows a handful of French, English words tumbling together the way he would speak his native language. "Is that why our selection of fine art has caught your interest?"
The scent of smoke is stronger than anything else he was picking up, which just makes him envious. Lestat fishes into a pocket for the little metal case he keeps there.
"A man who knows what he is looking at," and the accent does not ring of someone who just knows a handful of French, English words tumbling together the way he would speak his native language. "Is that why our selection of fine art has caught your interest?"
The scent of smoke is stronger than anything else he was picking up, which just makes him envious. Lestat fishes into a pocket for the little metal case he keeps there.
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.
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."
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."
Edited 2024-06-28 14:19 (UTC)
"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.
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."
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.
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.
"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."
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."
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."
"I believe you."
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 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.
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.
Louis touches his arm, and Lestat's hand wanders up, fingertips brushing against the other man's elbow, not quite a grip. Studying him, from where he'd stood at the door, and here, right in front of him. It could be a mistake to imagine that the boundaries between them have been properly shattered along with Antoinette's front door (and bed frame), but there is an instinct that knows better than to start making too many demands.
An invitation. Lestat cocks his head, because a man cannot simply do as he's told without making a little show of the alternative, but then the corner of his mouth turns up.
He steps around him, opening the lid of the handsome casket that is Louis' resting place. The black polished wood and the deep green interior. (Where Claudia would have placed him, where Louis would have rested for so long, days and nights, before managing to make it out.) Home. Lestat ducks down to crawl inside amongst the plush velvet, shifting over to make space.
Then, reaches to receive Louis coming in after. Silent, for a rare moment in time.
An invitation. Lestat cocks his head, because a man cannot simply do as he's told without making a little show of the alternative, but then the corner of his mouth turns up.
He steps around him, opening the lid of the handsome casket that is Louis' resting place. The black polished wood and the deep green interior. (Where Claudia would have placed him, where Louis would have rested for so long, days and nights, before managing to make it out.) Home. Lestat ducks down to crawl inside amongst the plush velvet, shifting over to make space.
Then, reaches to receive Louis coming in after. Silent, for a rare moment in time.
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.
Comfortable and familiar positioning in the kind of space that a human would likely shudder to imagine existing in for any length of time. An arm around there, tucked in just so, and now there is no escape from each other. Lestat's eyes close as Louis touches that bruising.
As you should, Lestat had said. Hate is such a powerful force. Hate is so much better than the silence that had preceded it. Bruises are an improvement on the soft blank nothingness of disdain. He can accept them as conduits to love-making, to love. The only way Louis could allow himself to give into it.
"You still smell like the river," he murmurs, a hand sliding up Louis' bare side.
As you should, Lestat had said. Hate is such a powerful force. Hate is so much better than the silence that had preceded it. Bruises are an improvement on the soft blank nothingness of disdain. He can accept them as conduits to love-making, to love. The only way Louis could allow himself to give into it.
"You still smell like the river," he murmurs, a hand sliding up Louis' bare side.
"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.
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."
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."
First, a hummed sound of satisfaction.
Then short silence, these slow, light touches over the ghosts of where hands had gripped so fiercely. Pleasing aches, pleasing gentleness. He studies Louis' face in the shadows, unshy about when their eyes find each other so closely.
A small ripple, a surprise for that question, a breath out through the nose. "About what?" he queries. He matches Louis' in tone, gentle and quiet, emphasised a little by the slow stroke of his fingers at Louis' shoulder. "Our agreed upon conditions between ourselves and the little miss?"
Then short silence, these slow, light touches over the ghosts of where hands had gripped so fiercely. Pleasing aches, pleasing gentleness. He studies Louis' face in the shadows, unshy about when their eyes find each other so closely.
A small ripple, a surprise for that question, a breath out through the nose. "About what?" he queries. He matches Louis' in tone, gentle and quiet, emphasised a little by the slow stroke of his fingers at Louis' shoulder. "Our agreed upon conditions between ourselves and the little miss?"
Edited 2024-06-29 08:55 (UTC)
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.
"This is my home."
Placing his hand on Louis' bare chest, a musical little settling of his fingers. "I have no hesitations."
His other hand, folded between them, covers Louis' where it's wandered up to that bruising. In the slanted firelight, a little smile as he presses the other man's fingers against the discolouration, drawing in a breath at the throb of pain, and otherwise, that it inspires.
But—
"I might have made some amendments for the conditions, had I felt the court would hear them."
Placing his hand on Louis' bare chest, a musical little settling of his fingers. "I have no hesitations."
His other hand, folded between them, covers Louis' where it's wandered up to that bruising. In the slanted firelight, a little smile as he presses the other man's fingers against the discolouration, drawing in a breath at the throb of pain, and otherwise, that it inspires.
But—
"I might have made some amendments for the conditions, had I felt the court would hear them."
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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