Chapter Text
“You’ve been cleaning more than me for the past three days.”
Daniel swipes the microfibre cloth over the spotless table one more time and refuses to accept what Armand’s just said.
“Look, this is important to me,” he says instead, then gives the table another spritz of cleaning liquid.
“I know that,” Armand says from where he’s lounging on the sofa, tablet in his hands, wearing only obscenely expensive silk boxers and an open, plum-violet robe dripping off his body. “Which is why I’m not stepping in to help, per your request. Also, there’s no need to use detergents with microfibres; the multi-stranded fibre structure—”
“Are you on Wikipedia again?”
“No, Minecraft.” Armand shows off the screen proudly, like a kid with macaroni art.
“Looks great, babe.”
“Thank you.”
“I’ve been a shit father, you know that. They deserved so much fucking better, they still do, but they still worry about me. That’s… I can’t waste that, Armand.”
“I’m sure you won’t, beloved.”
Daniel wipes the cleaning liquid off the table, polishes around the edges.
“I mean, we’re gonna officially put me in the ground in a couple years, so I just want to give them at least a few half-decent memories with me, for fuck’s sake! But now they think I’ve got dementia because I’m writing gay vampire erotica and shacking up with a twink who’s a third my age. They also probably think I’m using again, because I definitely act high during interviews. Fuck, I am high, just on human fucking blood instead of crack or heroin. What am I supposed to do here?”
Armand looks at him steadily with those large, amber eyes.
“That’s been clean for the past five minutes.”
The sight of Daniel assiduously cleaning is, frankly, disturbing.
Firstly, it’s unnatural: it’s a sign that something is deeply wrong in Daniel Molloy’s world if he suddenly concerns himself with tidiness.
And secondly, he’s terrible at it. Armand loves him unceasingly and rapaciously, but he really thinks no love could be so blind as to claim Daniel is any good at cleaning. Not even his.
Of course, he’s very well aware what’s causing his beloved so much distress: his daughters are supposed to come over for a visit. They’ve reached out, concerned about Daniel’s recent and very public behaviour, and they both agreed to come over to ‘catch up’.
“I think it’s nice,” Armand points out while Daniel rearranges the sofa cushions for the eighth time.
“It’s not nice, Armand, it’s a goddamn wellness check.”
“And your daughters caring about your wellness is not nice because…?”
“Because I’ll have to explain why I’m acting like I’m using or demented or both without making them call an ambulance to give me a stroke eval.”
There’s a game Armand sometimes likes to play: keep prodding and see at which point Daniel will realise he’s being funny on purpose.
“I could easily alter the memories of anyone called to examine you.”
“Sweetheart, you’re not helping.”
Oh, Armand is very well aware of that. He was told not to, wasn’t he. Therefore, he issues another prod.
“This might actually be a good way to assuage your daughters’ concerns.”
“Jesus Christ, please don’t do this.”
Armand is on what he believes people call ‘a roll’ these days.
“You know, if you postpone your daughters’ visit by just one day, I can have doctor Bhansali flown in to join us for the visit.”
And there it is, that bright moment of realisation in Daniel’s eyes, going off like a camera flash and enabling him to see the full picture clearly; ever the journalist, his beloved.
“Oh my god, you’re such a shit. Here, you know what?” Daniel picks up one of the cushions and throws it at Armand’s head. “Get back on the sofa. Asshole.”
Armand grabs the cushion, hugs it comfortably to his chest, and flops back onto the sofa with a chuckle. He does so love pushing Daniel’s buttons in this harmless, playful way.
(They’re both learning to be harmless with each other. It’s going rather well, Armand thinks, despite the inevitable backslides and accidents, as well as the need to occasionally cut deeper and let leftover poisons out so everything can properly heal. Like a controlled brush fire.)
The sofa cushions aren’t particularly artful, but Armand leaves them be, even though his hands itch to rearrange them more sensibly and aesthetically. Daniel wants to do this on his own, and Armand’s beloved will have anything he wishes for.
Going by Daniel’s reaction to the late evening phone call (Armand had to work quite hard to wake him up for it), he’s surprised that his daughters have reached out to him. Still, Daniel has seized on the opportunity to reconnect with them, perhaps even try to mend things, as far as said daughters and the circumstances permit. It’s very sweet, which Armand enjoys pointing out with some regularity, because it makes Daniel squirm and complain about not being sweet at all. Which, objectively, is true — Daniel Molloy is not a sweet person, except he sometimes very much is. So complex and wonderful, his fascinating boy.
Anyway, the whole thing really quite lovely — and that’s a concept Armand is exploring. He hasn’t really had much use of the word ‘lovely’ in his life, beyond its occasional, lukewarm application to aesthetics. This, however — this opportunity to witness a sense of connection, to witness something once-broken being carefully mended — this classifies as lovely.
(Armand is fairly sure. He’s Googled it.)
He just wishes it wasn’t all so hard on Daniel. He keeps working himself up, and if he cleans that damn table one more time, Armand will break his promise of not getting involved and confiscate his cleaning supplies.
There’s a mathematical formula to be found there, in how Daniel’s stress levels rise exponentially to the reduction of time remaining until his daughters’ visit. If Armand loved Daniel less (not possible, not ever, not by one atom or iota), he would have attempted to find that formula and write it down. As it is, he looks on in concern, duly banished to the sofa during the night, per Daniel’s firm request to not help him clean.
Daniel is very preoccupied with doing this on his own. Some sort of proof to himself and to his daughters that he is capable of putting in the effort. (A ludicrous way to demonstrate it, of course, but Armand loves him nonetheless.)
He’s extremely concerned with what his daughters will think about him, about his recent behaviour and choices, and even Armand’s presence in his life.
It’s then that a thought occurs to Armand; not a particularly pleasant one, but fully understandable, and he wonders at himself for not having considered it before. He closes his tablet, sets it aside, and pads over to where Daniel is wrangling some of his scattered books back onto the shelves.
He looks at his beloved, at the way he sometimes squints, forgetting his eyesight isn’t failing him any more; the way his silver hair curls into an entire symphony on his head; the way he cares so bloodily while so ready to play the cynic.
Armand loves him endlessly.
“If you need me to,” he says carefully, “I can be Rashid tomorrow.”
Daniel’s head snaps up, eyes hard and hurt. “No,” he says instantly, and that’s not at all the reaction Armand anticipated. “No, absolutely not.”
“Why not?” he asks, still puzzled.
Daniel angrily shoves all the books in his arms onto one shelf. “Forget it, Armand. I couldn’t do that to you.”
His beloved has a way of delivering confusing statements in the tone of obvious explanations.
“You wouldn’t be doing anything to me,” Armand says, and here’s an example of a clear explanation that Daniel would do well to learn from. “I’m offering.”
“I said no, okay?”
“Yes, I’ve registered that,” Armand says, perhaps a little tartly. “But I’d like to understand why.”
Daniel deflates, sighing; he suddenly looks tired, almost in a way he hasn’t since his turning. Their bond spikes with a sense of worry and unease, and Armand goes to him instantly, obeys every instinct screaming to take him in his arms. Daniel pushes his face into the crook of Armand’s neck, wraps his arms around Armand’s waist, sways them ever so gently from side to side. Soothing, Armand cards a hand through his hair.
“I don’t want to…” Daniel mumbles into Armand’s skin, then lifts his head, looking him in the eyes, and he almost looks in pain. In distress. “I’m not going to use you. Not gonna be just another old fucking guy moulding you into some twisted fantasy, okay? I get that you’re offering, but there’s zero fucking way I’ll be okay with it. Ever.”
Oh.
For a moment, Armand’s mind is perfectly still and empty, crystal-clear like the wide open eye of a hurricane.
“I’m actually very much older than—” he begins, and he knows it’s deflection, and Daniel knows it too, because he interrupts him with a groan.
“Jesus Christ on a stick, will you stop for just one second? I’m trying… this is a moment for me, okay? Capital M moment.”
It’s funny, because he makes no sense, but Armand somehow still understands him perfectly; he can’t hold back his smile, and it loosens something up in Daniel too.
“Very well,” says Armand with fake solemnity. “Carry on with your Moment. Although, just so you know, it would be nothing like what was asked of me in the past.”
“Asked, sure. Look, intellectually I know it wouldn’t be the same, but also it would? A little? The line is blurry here. And anyway, it’s a non-issue, because I want you here. You. Armand. I want you to meet my daughters, and I want you to be just… you. Real you.”
“Real me. Vampirism and all?”
“Okay, not that real. Look, just… be yourself. Be comfortable.”
“Thank you, I shall be. I shall be myself, the human Armand, a twink on an arguable side of twenty, who lives nocturnally out of devotion to your new, treatment-induced schedule.”
“You’re such a bitch,” Daniel growls fondly, before kissing him.
“Mm, I believe I’ve been called a gremlin.”
“Yeah, that too,” Daniel says, pressing one more kiss to his lips before beginning to withdraw.
Armand stops him gently.
“Thank you,” he says earnestly, because Daniel’s words have made a home in his heart, in a place he hasn’t realised was there. A place he hasn’t realised he was entitled to have. “For what you said. My offer was genuine, but your refusal was beautiful.”
Daniel looks a little sad, the way he tends to get when Armand’s past is mentioned; it’s usually either angry or sad. He strokes Armand’s cheek.
“It shouldn’t be. But I’m glad we worked it out. Hey,” he adds, looking uncertain again. “If you don’t want to be here, then… that’s okay. Go out for lunch or something.”
“How quickly you forget what happened the last time I left you unsupervised in favour of lunch,” Armand drawls, because he knows it will make Daniel laugh, which it does.
“Bold words there, buddy, considering all I did was unpack your own mess.”
Armand bites him, just a little, because this sort of slander will not stand.
“Ouch, babe, come on.”
“I very much would like to be here,” he tells Daniel. “I’m honoured that you’d like me to meet your daughters.”
“Eh, don’t be. According to them, there’s no honour in hanging out with me. And they’re right, by the way.”
“Nonsense,” Armand declares authoritatively, which he feels he has a right to — he’s an authority on the wonders of Daniel Molloy, after all. “You’re magnificent and wonderful, and your company is a gift.”
“Jesus, did you drain a drunk today?”
“Daniel,” Armand says sternly.
“Yeah, all right.” Daniel has the decency to put on a slightly contrite look. “Thanks. But I was a shit father, okay? And for Sarah and Lauren my company is not a gift. And they have every right to feel however they feel about me. Okay?”
Armand takes a moment to think about it. His first instinct is to bristle and bare his teeth at the suggestion that anyone may be entitled to think Daniel is anything short of resplendent, but he reins that instinct in. He knows that, objectively, Daniel has made mistakes, has a streak of cruelty and selfish calculation in him, and that it has wounded people around him. However—
“Hey.” Daniel playfully swipes a finger under Armand’s chin to get his attention. “You can ponder this all you want later, but this is non-negotiable. So just give me a ‘yes’ or ‘no’, and then you can go back to your musings.”
“Yes,” Armand says without more hesitation. “I accept your condition.”
“Not really a condition, more of an objective statement, but I’ll take it. You do not get to judge my daughters’ opinions about me. Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Great.” Daniel kisses him on the forehead. “Glad we had that talk. Now I can go back to cleaning, and you can go back to not helping me with it.”
“As you wish,” says Armand, because they watched The Princess Bride recently. “As you wish.”