Chapter Text
“Hah. No,” says Daniel Molloy, 70, newly-turned vampire, and investigative journalist famed for an ability to smell bullshit from miles upwind. Or, he was, before publishing Louis’ memoir and tanking his journalistic career. Whatever. Point is, he's still got it, and trying to feed him this story is insulting whatever he has left of professional pride.
“...no?” Blinks the Vampire Armand de Lie-and-Manipulate, looking, for all intents and purposes, like the very picture of apologetic remorse, raw affection, and tremulous hope. Daniel appreciates that he's at least getting a better performance than Louis did. Mental note for the next book: contritely acknowledge that Armand's acting talents may be valued above a Golden Raspberry, after all. “I fail to catch your meaning, beloved.”
“No, I'm not buying it.” Daniel leans back, pulls his hand out from under Armand's, folds his arms. “Nice try, really. I like the angle, it's bold, kind of impressed you had the balls to go for it. But if you're gonna try to lie to my face, AGAIN, you gotta try a bit harder.”
“But I am not lying,” lies Armand, like a liar.
“Sure.” Daniel chuckles. It was already a hoot to unravel Armand's lies when he still thought the guy was probably going to pick his vertebrae out of his back one by one for it, now that he no longer has mortal death to fear and can (maybe, probably, hopefully) hold his own in a potential fight, it's downright hilarious. “Pull the other one, why don't you.”
“You are being very trying, Daniel my love,” Armand sighs, and somehow manages to communicate that he thinks Daniel is also being a giant dick even without the help of the Mind Gift.
Well, fuck him very much, too. It's not like Daniel started any of this. This is Armand's game, and it's not his fault the asshole is a sore loser.
He was hoping for better, is the thing. For something real.
It goes like this: Daniel gets invited to re-interview a vampire. Daniel goes and does. Daniel finds out that the vampire's Stockholm-syndrome-bait of a husband tortured him and erased his memories of it 50 years ago. Daniel decides, fuck it, I'm going to ruin that guy's whole fake construct of a happy home life, see how he likes that. He destroys a marriage that was older than him, and just as doomed from the start. Louis leaves, and Armand’s orange eyes, trembling as much as the rest of his body, turn to the architect of his destruction.
Shit, thinks Daniel.
The bite and the turning and the first 48 hours after are about as hazy as most of Daniel's memories of the 70s - and being a vampire, well, that's just as good a high as the very best he had then, too, except it lasts eternally. Daniel loves it. Armand might've done it out of spite, or as some kind of fucked-up revenge, but Daniel doesn't care, not really. He loves it.
He writes a book.
And then, after months, a year of radio silence, his absentee Maker finally deigns to show his false-angelic face in front of Daniel again, looking like a kicked kitten, and says that he couldn't bear to stay away any longer; and that he owes Daniel an explanation.
Which! He sure as hell does! He owes Daniel a good number of things, honestly, abandoning him as a newly-made fledgling. If not for what Louis told him during the interview - and later, too, because Daniel's mere vampiric existence was one big guilt trip to him, and he took responsibility - and the distanced assistance of the Talamasca, he wouldn't have known the first thing about surviving as a vampire.
But Daniel was ready to… not forgive, but move on. He thought he'd get an explanation that might or might not be just an excuse, perhaps an apology Armand most definitely wouldn't actually mean, and then they could see how the fucked-up maker-fledgling bond would continue to manifest between the two of them.
That's what Daniel thought would happen.
Instead, Armand sits down, watches him silently for five minutes with those freaky fiery eyes of him, and then lies through his fanged teeth. Which, yeah. Figures. Figures! Daniel doesn't know why he ever expected anything else.
This is the story, according to Armand: Armand loves Daniel. Loved him. Loves him. In the 70s and part of the 80s, nestled in those blank spots in Daniel's memory, they had some kind of completely fucked-in-the-head codependency romance thing going, which started messy, continued twisted, and ended catastrophically when Armand kept refusing to give Daniel the Dark Gift, and Daniel retaliated by hurtling with full force towards a pitiful junkie's/drunkard’s death by overdose or liver failure, whichever would come first. Armand eventually decided to salvage the situation by wiping/editing Daniel's memories, tossing him into rehab, and letting him have a normal human life afterwards, which, at the time, seemed like the most effective method of damage control.
(Armand calls this “the worst mistake of my undying life, akin to clawing my own beating heart out of my chest and throwing it into the fires of hell”.
Daniel calls it bullshit.)
Until the 2020s, Dubai, Louis wanting to give an interview. Wanting to give an interview to Daniel Molloy, specifically, and no other. Armand did not like it, but sick with yearning both for a version of Louis that no longer existed and maybe never did, and sick with longing for the beautiful, lovely boy he willingly abandoned and who will soon die of old age and/or Parkinson's, he eventually agreed. Under the condition that he could play Rashid, and attend to Daniel without the risk of jogging locked-away memories.
Then it all went off the rails. Armand lost Louis.
Armand claims that the thought of losing Daniel, too, his clever, astute, vicious boy, had suddenly become unbearable; a worse horror than the disgust that the procedure of turning had always inspired in him.
So, Armand's fangs in Daniel's neck. Armand's blood in Daniel's mouth.
And then Armand fleeing, mortified by his actions, by the consequences of them. Hiding, for as long as he can bear it.
Returning, to lay out the whole sorry tale before Daniel, in the hope that they might recover something from the wreckage of their ill-fated affair, after all, now that they have eternity to share and Armand's loneliness is eating away at him.
He claims to have come to Daniel as a penitent devil, offering the truth and all of himself, in the hope that he will receive a scrap of love in return.
That's the story.
According to Armand, who tried to convince Louis that the script annotated in his own hand was an obscure decades-old ploy of Santiago's to ruin him. Somehow.
So, yeah.
No.
“I'm being ‘trying’?” Daniel scoffs, points an accusing finger at Armand. The sharp white fingernails still throw him off a bit when he glimpses them out of the corner of his eye. “You know what you're being, pal? Predictable.”
He says the word like it's an insult. Armand clearly also receives it as one. Good.
“This is just your practised M.O. all over again.” Daniel explains, counting each point off his fingers one by one. “One, you find yourself at loose ends. Two, you find a hole in someone's recollection, and three, you get busy manipulating in order to make it fit your shape enough so you can bury yourself in it for the next few decades. Bonus points if it can turn a guy who has good reason to hate you into your loyal boyfriend. You pulled this on Louis when he had no idea who saved him, now you're pulling it on me because you know that I don't remember shit from most of the 70s.”
“But-” begins Armand. Daniel gestures for him to shut up, like he did during the interview, and ploughs on. Disregard.
“Ah, there's my opening, thinks Armand, professional opportunist - betcha you factored in how pervy I got over Rashid, too. You-Rashid, mind, not Real-Rashid. You knew I wanted you, because neither you nor Louis could ever stay out of my goddamn head for longer than five minutes, and now you're making that work for you.”
“You wanted me, even disguised, because despite it all, your body recalled mine and hungered for it! Still, after all these years,” argues Armand, heatedly, and not entirely convincing, “as mine has never stopped hungering for yours! Had you propositioned ‘Rashid’, had you accepted what I never ceased offering, I would have been on my knees, on my back, in any position you would take me-”
“Hm-hm. Really making those hypotheticals work for you, aren't you.” Daniel rolls his eyes. “Easy to claim these things now. Armand, seriously, why are you doing this!?”
“Because I love you,” Armand points out, quietly, though it's starting to be the sort of quiet that comes before a storm. He's pissed Daniel's not falling for it, clearly.
“No, you don’t,” Daniel shoots back. It’s not calming the thunder behind those orange-red eyes any, no.
(They stare at each other. Daniel kind of wishes Armand hadn't said the bit about ‘Rashid’ being willing to let Daniel hit it, because if there's one thing he learned from two marriages going to shit, then it's that angry sex can be really fucking hot. And now he's thinking about it. Wondering if he should see how far Armand is willing to go for this little failing scheme of his. Whether…
But no. He won't repeat Louis’ mistakes. Or his own, come to think of it. Hands off, Molloy!)
“Look, it's flattering,” he says, because, hey, it is. It really is. This 500-year-old creature has chosen him, out of all people, to gaslight and parasitically attach himself to. Daniel's been hit on by worse guys, for worse reasons - and has done the hitting on, too - and in a really perverse sort of way, it strokes his ego. It must be humiliating for Armand, to debase himself to gain the favour of someone who was just a pathetic, insignificant human so very recently. Daniel's kinda pleased that Armand considers him worth the indignity. “But I don't mind that you turned me out of spite, I don't care-”
“Spite!” Armand gasps, indignant with rage.
“Or whatever else you’d call it. It’s fine. You did me a favour, man, regardless of the reason. So you really don’t need to do… this.”
“On the contrary. For the sake of my heart, I must,” insists Armand, sharply, though it’s starting to sound like he really actually wishes he’d never even tried.
Well, hindsight’s a bitch, alright! Daniel vaguely wonders when, if ever, he seriously regretted what he did to Louis, over those 77 years. But if there’s one thing Daniel Molloy is good at, then it’s triggering buyer’s remorse early.
“Whatever you tell yourself to sleep at ni- well. Day.” Daniel shrugs. Grins. Grins harder when Armand frowns. “But quit trying to bullshit me, Armand. I’m not falling for it, I’m not gonna fall for it, and honestly I’m getting a bit of second-hand embarrassment from you even trying to- hey, what’s with that face?”
“I am attempting,” Armand says, strained, face scrunched up in utmost concentration, “to remind myself of the reasons for which I adore you, beloved.”
“Are you now.”
“Yes. They are… not coming as easily to me as they once did, at the moment. I am-” a sharp glare through narrowed eyes “-struggling.”
That was probably meant to sting. Daniel honestly just thinks it’s fucking hilarious.
“Cute,” Daniel says, and then, “you’re insane” since Armand really is an expert at being both at once, “and still lying,” because that never stops, apparently.
Armand’s scrunched up trying-to-remember-why-I-’love’-you expression hardens.
He draws in a deep, shaking breath. Entirely for effect, obviously. Drama queen.
“Yes, Daniel. I have lied to you. Many times. I admit that freely, and regret all instances, even those I once thought necessary.” His voice trembles. It’s a nice touch. “But hear me now, most beloved. Hear my heart cry out to you in these words!”
Armand leans forward. Daniel leans back.
“I am not lying now. I swear it on my mortal birth and the years of a youth I barely remember. I swear it on every star lighting the sky on the first night I spent as a vampire. I swear it-” his voice cracks, wet now like blood seeping out around a fractured bone piercing the skin “-on every beat of your mortal heart, measuring out a life that has, for many decades, been more precious to me than my own. I am not lying. We loved each other, Daniel. I denied you the Gift many times, but when I at last gave it to you, I gave it out of love. And even though you do not remember, even if you never will - I love you, still and always.”
A long, drawn-out moment of silence.
“You really thought that would work, huh,” says Daniel, finally. “Swearing on all those things that are dead and over and gone. No, for the last fucking time. Go try this routine on some other poor sucker, why don’t you.”
Armand’s face does not fall, it crumbles, like an ancient ruin collapsing in on itself. It’s kind of horrifying to watch.
“...they are correct. Your former colleagues, who now decry you.” He finally says, standing to tower over Daniel, all of him subtly trembling with fury. Here comes the tantrum. “You have become a paranoid conspiracy theorist in your old age, Daniel Molloy!”
“Yeah?” Daniel says, because he can't help himself, and because ‘oh, you’ve been following the news about me?’ would probably be worse.
“Yeah,” Armand hisses back. The welling of blood-tears at his lower lids is a really nice touch, Daniel notes distantly.
And without another word, Armand whirls around, and stalks out with a look on his face Daniel thinks he very vaguely remembers from his SanFran Saw Trap Experience Extravaganza back in ‘73. Someone’s about to be psychologically and physically tortured, but, hey, at least it’s not him this time.
‘Good riddance’, thinks Daniel Molloy, and tries not to feel disappointed.
(It’s just. He’d really, really hoped for something better. Something truer.
He’d hoped.)
Less than six hours later, Armand is back, sitting on Daniel’s favourite armchair with his legs drawn up and folded, and a messenger bag tucked between his side and the armrest. He is holding one of those tablet thingies again, and seems to be playing a surprisingly colourful game on it.
Daniel swears, loudly. Armand looks up.
“What- you here- why- WHAT!?” Daniel splutters, which more or less translates to ‘what the hell, why are you back, didn’t you give up, what fresh hell is this’.
Armand sniffs. Pauses his game.
“True Love,” he says very seriously, and that’s already quite the upgrade, isn’t it, true love, “is the sort of thing that endures in the face of hardship. Your rejection does not deter me, beloved.”
“Does this deter you,” Daniel snaps, and makes the sort of rude gesture you really shouldn’t direct at a 500-year-old apex predator.
Armand, the bastard, smiles. He almost manages to make it look convincingly besotted, though he’s showing a few too many teeth for that.
“No,” says Armand, sweetly, the way rot smells sweet, and looks back down, unpausing his game.
Daniel has the distinct feeling that he will one day look back and identify this moment as the beginning of the end.