Don’t Mind Being the Worst

by irisbleufic

Summary:

Daniel Molloy, following Lestat’s entourage on account of the documentary he’s filming, has in fact shown his face in the crowd. Raglan had been right about Sam’s presence being sufficient incentive for Daniel to attempt to catch him for comment on Paris once he’s offstage, maybe—or to assume that some other party might also show up because of Sam’s presence, in order to either speak with him or to enact vengeance.

Sam doesn’t need to flip any more switches or control the rest of what’s happening with his music. From here on out, it’s automated, although he’d taken into account he might have to lock it down at any point and simply watch his mark (or marks) if he’d happened to catch sight of him (or them) early. He probably seems distracted now even if the crowd can’t see his face; he’s not moving anymore in a way that anyone in their right mind would consider expressive. His stillness would strike Daniel as inhuman if Daniel happened to be paying attention to the stage.

Daniel hasn’t been paying attention to the performance. His back is turned, and he’s looking at something else.

Chapter 1: Opening Act

Sam has a limited field of visibility through his helmet’s visor.  His vision is fine, what with his vampiric eyes, but the Talamasca underestimates what the equivalent of wearing blinders and coping with the club lights’ constant strobe effects can do to interrupt continuity.

Sometimes, Sam thinks he hasn’t chosen the best art form for the past couple of decades given some of what he’s gradually learned to call sensory issues instead of pet peeves.  Everything else about being a DJ, he’d enjoyed until…he hadn’t.  For the past ten years out of twenty-odd, he hasn’t performed nearly as often as he had during his first ten or so.  Whenever he feels guilty about that, Rashid tells him to knock it off.

Rashid, who’s waiting in the wings for him like he always has during the performances that Sam has agreed to do during the years they’ve been together.  Rashid, who he’d trained as an agent in the Order, been assigned to as his partner, and fallen in love with in the process.  Rashid, who Sam had discovered is meant to be monitoring him due to an unflattering note in his file that’s been there since Paris, but which Rashid hasn’t heeded—because to hell with following that kind of (definitely) prejudiced, (arguably) ableist procedure with your companion.

Sam and Rashid are more devoted to each other than the Order realizes. They have plans that will land them both on a watchlist before long, not just Sam.  They’d been about to go through with those plans until this weekend’s assignment came through from Raglan. Now that they’re on said assignment, neither one of them knows if it will end with tonight’s stake-out disguised as a performance, or if it’ll be extended.

Sam hadn’t been happy about Raglan sitting him and Rashid down to dinner to inform them that the Order had pulled strings to book Sam as Lestat’s local opener in this particular club venue.  It’s unusually intimate for an act as high-profile as Lestat, cramped—which Sam dislikes in the event that there’s an attack from rogue parties, vampires or otherwise, and all hell breaks loose. He avoids places with limited escape routes.

So far, Sam has been onstage for thirty out of his allotted forty-five minutes, and nothing like that has happened.  But what has happened is that Raglan, that smug bastard, has gotten his way as far as why he’d put Sam and Rashid on stakeout here—planted them, planted Sam, as bait.

Daniel Molloy, following Lestat’s entourage on account of the documentary he’s filming, has in fact shown his face in the crowd.  Raglan had been right about Sam’s presence being sufficient incentive for Daniel to attempt to catch him for comment on Paris once he’s offstage, maybe—or to assume that some other party might also show up because of Sam’s presence, in order to either speak with him or to enact vengeance.

Sam doesn’t need to flip any more switches or control the rest of what’s happening with his music.  From here on out, it’s automated, although he’d taken into account he might have to lock it down at any point and simply watch his mark (or marks) if he’d happened to catch sight of him (or them) early.  He probably seems distracted now even if the crowd can’t see his face; he’s not moving anymore in a way that anyone in their right mind would consider expressive.  His stillness would strike Daniel as inhuman if Daniel happened to be paying attention to the stage.

Daniel hasn’t been paying attention to the performance. His back is turned, and he’s looking at something else.  When Sam realizes that, he swears and walks swiftly to one side of the stage, angling his body in the hope that he’ll be able to see, in his limited field of visibility, what Daniel sees.

Armand is there, hanging against the back wall in one corner.  He’s dressed in strangely subdued clothes, too—a faded, fraying knee-length black cotton overcoat with abalone snaps and oversized pockets that looks like it had been expensive once.  Black shirt and dark-wash denim underneath, indistinct; his hair’s pulled back, and a few waves of it hang loose in his face.  He looks…young, exhausted, gaunt.  The Doc Martens he’s wearing are the only standout: that Bosch triptych print limited edition from 2011.  Sam has to admire the dig in Daniel’s direction.

Sam knows the difference between artifice and desperation with Armand; aside from the Hell boots, this is not artifice.  He hopes Daniel is willing to lend his restored memories credence and not be too much of an arse.  Sam also hopes Armand won’t be too much of an arse to Daniel, but he also knows that he’s not going to get his wish on either front when Daniel spots Armand a split second later and makes a beeline for him.

Sam watches the two of them start a heated conversation, sighs, and heads back to his equipment.  He cranks the volume up a notch, notes that there are about five minutes left to what he’s locked in to play, and decides he should just perform as if the remainder is under his control.  Daniel and Armand likely aren’t going anywhere for the next five minutes; from what Sam remembers, they enjoy causing a spectacle.

As soon as he’s finished and the applause starts, rather than acknowledge his audience, Sam rushes back to his previous vantage point, in time to see…something he hasn’t seen in about forty years.  Daniel has Armand pinned against the wall, Armand has both hands up the back of Daniel’s leather jacket, and they’re kissing with such abandon that even the handful of other couples taking advantage of the shadows have stopped to stare.  Sam watches long enough to see Daniel whisper something in Armand’s ear, which…gets him a nasty claw-swipe across the face before Armand storms out.  Daniel covers the bloody scratches, spits something angrily at the onlookers, and follows Armand.  Half a century and the needle hasn’t moved, Sam thinks, disheartened by what he’s seen.  He walks back to center stage for another thirty seconds.

Once the applause fades and the lights go down, Sam rushes off stage left.  He’s relieved to feel Rashid’s hand close around his wrist and pull him into a concealed space behind the dusty, heavy curtains.  He sweeps the helmet off and drops it at their feet, going pliant as Rashid backs him against the wall and just hugs him.  Sam closes his eyes in relief, clinging to his companion as the adrenaline rush ebbs.  He sucks in his breath.

“What’s the matter?” Rashid asks in a low voice.  “What did you see?”

“They were there,” Sam pants.  “Fought, kissed, and left.  I lost ’em.”

“Anticlimactic,” Rashid replies, nuzzling Sam’s jaw.  “Shhh, it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine if we’re meant to have gotten anything of substance.”

“I don’t give a toss about what Raglan hoped we’d get,” Rashid continues.  “Some stake-outs don’t yield results.  Tonight’s chances were low.”

“Why the fuck did you come with me tonight, then?” Sam snaps, but instantly feels bad about it.  He shouldn’t take his frustration out on Rashid.

“I like the way you move onstage,” Rashid whispers against Sam’s cheek, a smile in his voice.  He strokes Sam’s damp hair back from his forehead, and then kisses the pulse-point beneath his jaw.  “It’s why I keep trying to get you to enroll in evening dance classes with me.”

Sam feels his knees give out.  He clings to Rashid’s shoulders, muffling an undignified sound against his neck.  “This isn’t your thing,” he pants as Rashid nips the spot and teases Sam with a swipe of his tongue.  “You’re a fuckin’ angel for putting up with it.  Granted, this performance is a stake-out, so you don’t have much choice in—oh, hell.  Darlin’, don’t do that unless you want to risk—Rashid.  I’m not messing about.”

“Remember what I said to you once, not long after we fell into coffin together?” Rashid asks, so earnest it’s heartbreaking.  He pulls Sam tighter against himself, stroking along Sam’s jaw with his thumb.  “Before the Dubai mission where you were stuck inside for years except for your weekend performances—running our audio surveillance, worried sick for me every moment I was in that penthouse?”

Sam closes his eyes, nuzzling Rashid’s palm before curling forward to bury his face in Rashid’s neck.  “I do,” he sighs, letting his fangs drop, mouthing at the warmth beneath Rashid’s open collar.  “Even before we stopped being stubborn about saying…”  Sam grazes his fangs over Rashid’s skin, clinging fiercely when Rashid trembles against him.  “Love you so.  More than I ever loved life.  You know that.”

“I do,” Rashid replies.  “And I meant every word of what I said back then, about what I would’ve done had I been in Paris eighty years ago.  I would’ve been at the ticket booth every night to see your handsome face, look into those lovely eyes—” he rakes both hands through Sam’s hair when he feels the tentative pinprick of Sam’s fangs, nodding in assent “—in the audience every night to watch your scenes.”

“I was on prop queues,” Sam protests, licking away the initial droplets of blood that he’s drawn.  He might be pinned with his back to the wall, but he can feel how weak in the knees Rashid has gone, too.  “You’re mad if you think that shite’s compelling.  Romaine sure didn’t.”

“I like the way you move onstage,” Rashid repeats stubbornly, one hand sliding from Sam’s hair down to the back of his neck, impatient.  “And I love the way you move when it’s just us, alone like this.  I don’t bloody care what anyone in the coven thought.  I love you.”

“Christ,” Sam gasps, his hips jolting when Rashid slides a thigh between his legs.  “Not—not here,” he continues, pushing away from the wall, holding Rashid steady so he doesn’t stumble and fall flat on his back.  “This way,” he says, bending to retrieve the helmet.  Sam glances guiltily over his shoulder as he leads Rashid by the hand, realizing that they’re no longer watching or always there.  They had one job, and they’ve decided to say fuck it in favor of a self-indulgent date night.  “Don’t know how much flak we’ll catch, but I don’t care.”

“It’ll be easy to fake the back half of our report, because they’ll do what other agents in other cities say they’ve been doing,” Rashid says, following Sam from the wings down a narrow, ill-lit, sticker-plastered hall.  “Argue, fling accusations, dance around the real issue, try their best to just snog about it until they’re both knocked sideways by the fact they can’t help but remember how fucking in love they were, how in love they still are…”

Sam huffs, hauling Rashid through the door of the dressing room he’s been assigned for the evening.  He slams it behind them, locks it with a thought, and stands staring wild-eyed at Rashid backlit by the ancient, failing lightbulbs around the mirror.  “I’m grateful every year I’ve known you, every year we’ve served in this increasingly risky bureaucratic nightmare, every year of that time I’ve been so fortunate as to be your companion…”  Sam’s voice breaks as he swallows and blinks to stave off tears.  “I’m grateful we’re not like that.  Grateful we’re not them.”

Rashid reaches for him, his expression so understanding that Sam doesn’t think he’ll keep the tears entirely at bay after all.  He takes both of Sam’s hands, drawing him over to the…thankfully not too battered sofa, although there’s a clean blanket that Sam recognizes from home draped over it.  Rashid’s doing.  That’s enough to make Sam’s eyes sting as Rashid sits and then pulls him down into his lap, the sheer thoughtfulness of it.

“How long is Lestat’s set?” Rashid asks, brushing his thumbs along Sam’s lower lashes, stemming the beginnings of blood tears before they can go much of anywhere.  He kisses Sam softly on the mouth, massaging the back of his neck.  “How long?  We can’t let the field office see us leaving too early, and besides…”  Rashid pulls him close.  “I want to make sure there’s enough time to keep doing this, to…take your mind off things.”

“Hour and a half-ish?” Sam manages, dazed.  He wants Rashid so badly he can’t think; straddling him like this isn’t helping, either.  “He gets away with a ridiculous number of encores, from what I understand.  I looked at setlists from previous cities in the tour online.”

“Good,” Rashid replies, rucking up Sam’s black tee.  “Help me out a bit?” he teases.  Sam doesn’t know when Rashid had lost his jacket, but it’s draped over the chair at the dressing table; he’s handsome in his patterned black and gray collared shirt.  “There you are.”

Sam has avoided them doing this in performance venues as a rule—but there have been a few occasions on which they haven’t been able to help themselves.  Sam knows they’d be obnoxious to anyone watching them at home, and Raglan barely tolerates their casual closeness as it is.  It’s maybe the fourth time they’ve caved and fooled around after Sam’s set, either here or on the road.  They’ve been good; they can have this.

“Are we obnoxious?” Sam blurts as Rashid helps him out of his shirt.  He moans as Rashid circles warm thumbs over his nipples before cupping his chest—to him, it’s flat and unimpressive in an age of men who frequent the gym.  Even Rashid doesn’t work out often, and he’s got nicer tits than Sam.  He loses the capacity for speech as Rashid leans to bite and lick in the wake of scraping his thumbnails over each side.

“Probably, but not compared to what’s happening out on that stage.  Sweet thing,” Rashid murmurs, scraping his teeth over one nipple after the other instead of his nails.  “Sensitive tonight?” he asks, pausing to touch Sam’s face, peering earnestly into his eyes.

“That’s a stupid fuckin’ question,” Sam whimpers, breathless, “when you know I’m always too…”  Trembling, he covers his mouth, leaning forward to press his forehead against Rashid’s shoulder as Rashid unfastens his jeans.  “Not yet, don’t, please, don’t, Rashid, I’ll…”

“If you come right now,” Rashid whispers in Sam’s ear, slipping his hand inside Sam’s underwear, “I’ll enjoy every second.  Will you?”

Lestat’s set has started.  The racket from the stage is unholy, but it’s one of the tracks Sam doesn’t mind.  Most of Lestat’s songs are excellent cover for anyone who can’t help being loud about their drunken hookup or fucking their unbelievably hot…husband, companion, both terms apply.  How had Sam gotten so unfathomably lucky after almost a century of miserable self-isolation out of both necessity and pickiness?

Sam feels Rashid’s fingers close around his aching cock.  He pushes into Rashid’s touch, gasping and sobbing after only a few minutes of Rashid stroking him.  He’s an overstimulated mess.  It’s always like this after performances, after stake-outs, after having to report to superiors they both hate where he’s on alert the entire meeting, fangs on edge, because Raglan just can’t treat Rashid like an equal or Sam like a person to save his life.

“Mera dil,” Rashid soothes, stilling his hand.  My heart.  “Should I keep doing this?  Want something else?”  He brushes Sam’s hair back again, tousling it with such tenderness that Sam wants to raise the question of turning him again then and there.  “What do you need?”

“Clothes off, maybe,” Sam exhales, leaning in, pressing their foreheads together.  “Is that too risky?  You brought the blanket, so I thought…”

“Want me to hold you while…?” Rashid asks, exposing more of his neck.

Sam exhales shakily.  “We could still ruin the sofa if you let me do that.”

“Mmm, that’s always a risk,” Rashid replies, grinning as he starts to unbutton his own shirt.  “But you’re hungry, it feels good, and the sex part’s usually messier,” he adds, giving Sam a quick, eager kiss.  “We can cuddle most of the set.  You love cuddling.  No down-sides.”

“Did I call you an angel?” Sam asks, stumbling off Rashid’s lap so both of them can finish undressing.  “Strike that.  You’re the fuckin’ devil.”

“So you’ve told me,” Rashid laughs, rolling his eyes.  He gets to his feet, more efficient about his clothes and shoes than Sam.  “Come here.”

Sam lets Rashid help him with his bottom layers and then pull him down on the cushions.  He nuzzles into Rashid’s neck once they’re pressed close under the half of the blanket that Rashid’s pulled down over them from the back of the sofa.  Sam tangles their limbs, and then kisses Rashid desperately.  He’s leaving a damp trail against Rashid’s belly, and Rashid groans into Sam’s mouth as his cock leaks in the crease of Sam’s thigh.  

“Want you so much I can’t stand it,” Sam whispers, already begging, his fangs poised against Rashid’s neck in a heartbeat.  “Please.”

“Yes,” Rashid whispers back.  He splays one hand at the small of Sam’s back, and the other between Sam’s shoulder blades.  “Now.”

Sam bites Rashid cleanly, shuddering in surprise as Rashid rolls over, pining him on his back.  He latches harder onto Rashid’s neck so that the movement doesn’t dislodge him, and the surge of pain makes Rashid stifle a shout in the blanket-covered cushion over Sam’s shoulder.

Sam wraps his legs tightly around Rashid’s hips, not able to do much more than writhe to meet Rashid’s thrusts against him.  He stops drinking after a minute—Rashid’s blood already burning in every cell of his body, the white-hot bliss of impending climax a flash down his spine.

“Ah, ah, I’m—” Rashid moans abruptly, shuddering to a standstill on top of Sam “—coming, Sam!”  He stifles his next cry against Sam’s ear.

Sam comes about a split second after he feels the first pulses of wet heat against his skin.  He digs the fingernails of his left hand into Rashid’s shoulder blade, arching his back as he twists his head to one side and tries to cover his mouth with his right forearm.  Sam cries out as Rashid pulls it away and gently turns his head back to face him.  Rashid coaxes him through his orgasm with reassuring praise.  Sam squeezes his eyes shut.

“Oh, love, just look at you.  No wonder they come in droves to watch.”

“Fuck—wait, oh, what?  Fuck off, ah, no, wait, don’t go, Rashid, stay—”

“Shhh,” Rashid murmurs, kissing Sam’s forehead and his cheeks as he trembles with aftershocks.  “I was never going anywhere.  I never will.”

Sam sniffles.  He kisses Rashid with abandon, winding his arms around Rashid’s neck.  “It’s not safe for you to stay mortal.  You know that.”

“I do,” Rashid says, bumping his nose against Sam’s.  “I don’t have reservations.  I haven’t for a long time.  I know you wanted me to be sure.”

“I’m a prize idiot,” Sam says.  “Should’ve done it, or had my maker to do it, after Dubai imploded.  At least then, Petronia might’ve pitied us.”

“You’re right that we might not have the luxury of asking them,” Rashid replies.  “Not anymore.  Not with how recent events have…escalated.”

“We could always ask Lestat,” Sam says wryly.  “His file’s clear on the point that he makes fledglings at the drop of a hat.  I figure we’d have more than half a chance at him understanding us not wanting to lose each other’s thoughts.  If he says no, though, I will do it. ”

Rashid shifts to lie next to Sam.  He grimaces at the mess and says, “You’ve never turned anyone.  Lestat’s mum is out there.  What about her?”

“It’s your funeral,” Sam mutters, summoning one of the clean, dry hand towels folded on the dressing table.  He wipes the blood and come off their bellies, tossing it as far across the dressing room as he can when the job’s done.  “We’ll take it with us,” Sam pouts when Rashid gives him a stern look, drawing Rashid’s face down for a kiss.  He sucks on Rashid’s lower lip; that earns him a contented hum.  “I’ll leave cash.”

“You’re sometimes as much of an entitled menace as some of the others,” Rashid tells Sam affectionately.  “Not all that often, but sometimes.”

“Right, I guess I am,” Sam shoots back, sarcastic.  “It’s the times when you help me make a fuckin’ mess of hotel or performance venue linens.”

Rashid laughs, bending to nuzzle Sam’s neck.  “I meant to have a go at both of us,” he says, sobering a little, kissing there.  “I adore you.”

“Don’t I know it, gorgeous.  There’s another towel, so—” Sam stretches languorously against Rashid’s body “—we could nap a bit, and then—”

Someone bangs so forcefully on the dressing room door that both of them startle.  Sam is too shaken to react as his mental query hits a brick wall.

Rashid sits up, reaching for his underthings, his trousers, and his shirt.  “Who’s there?” he asks in an impressively steady, congenial voice as he dresses.  He hands Sam his underthings and his shirt, coaxing him into both before wrapping the blanket around him otherwise.  “Hello?”

Rashid’s voice causes the interloper’s mental shields to drop.  Sam shrinks into the blanket—legs drawn up, arms wrapped around them—as Rashid instinctively shifts to sit on the edge of the cushion in front of Sam as he reads from Sam’s distress who’s lingering at the door.

The lock clicks; the doorknob turns.  Daniel Molloy steps into the dressing room.  It’s satisfying to see a vampire rendered so speechless by the presence of a mortal.  He stares at Rashid like there’s no person in the world he’d like to see less, and then he shoves his sunglasses up into his flyaway hair and takes a few steps closer to peer at Sam over Rashid’s shoulder.  He’s having the worst night since his turning.

“No closer, Mr. Molloy,” Rashid warns, reaching back to reassuringly touch Sam’s ankle through the blanket.  He grasps it, stroking over the joint with his thumb.  “We’re here on assignment.  Any act of aggression against us will be read as aggression against the Order.”

“Real Rashid,” Daniel says, lifting both hands in placation.  “Didn’t think I’d ever see you again, least of all with…”  He stares at Sam again, and then at Rashid’s hand grasping Sam’s ankle through the blanket, and then at the smattering of clothes on the floor—Sam’s jeans, Rashid’s bespoke dress shoes, Sam’s battered black Doc Martens, both of their pairs of socks.  “With Sam Barclay, of all vampires, but then again…Talamasca agents don’t have much to do but fuck.  That’s the situation in New York, anyway.  Credit where credit’s due, though, you two are…”

“We’re what, Mr. Molloy?” Rashid asks, shifting back to accommodate Sam as he scoots forward.  He slides an arm around Sam’s waist, keeping the blanket well tucked around Sam’s legs as he curls against his side with just his pale, bare feet exposed.  “Please go on.”

“In a relationship so diverse and committed that I can’t imagine Raglan has anything positive to say,” Daniel sighs, rubbing his forehead.  “Shit.”

“You came here to get me to talk, didn’t you,” Sam says.  “I know you’re following Lestat’s tour on account of the documentary, but I can’t imagine that a venue like this makes for advantageous interviewing or filming.”  He tilts his head.  “After the book, did you truly think—”

“News flash,” Daniel cuts in, confrontational.  “Nobody’s happy with how they come across in the book.  If there’s an afterlife, I’d be willing to bet that even the parties who’re dead aren’t happy.  Nobody escapes with impunity.  You’re a writer.  You should know that.”

Rashid tightens his hold on Sam, his thoughts projecting an aura of taut, controlled menace.  No wonder Daniel had never been able to get much of anywhere with him even when their interactions were human to human.  “Sam is under no obligation to fill in any gaps.”

“Sure,” Daniel says, dripping sarcasm, “but wouldn’t he like to stick it to Armand?”

“Why would I do that when it was Armand who helped me to escape?” Sam asks.

Daniel blinks, his eyes flickering strangely.  “You have got to be fucking kidding—”

“I’m confirming what you saw in the blood when he turned you,” Sam interjects.

Taking a step back, Daniel shakes his head.  “Calling my bluff.  Dick writer move.”

Rashid shrugs at Daniel, proudly glancing sidelong at Sam.  “Classier one than you.”

Sam scoffs, puts a hand on Rashid’s face, and kisses him.  “You think that line works?”

“You just kissed me,” Rashid replies, “so it must.”  He looks back at Daniel.  “What?”

Daniel is shaking his head again, this time disgusted with himself.  “Oh, I’m an idiot.”

Sam stares at him almost pityingly.  “Only just now figured it out, did you?  Dubai?”

“Had to’ve been a two-man job besides Raglan,” Daniel says.  “Surveillance tech?”

“I have experience with sound equipment,” Sam replies, shrugging whimsically.

Dropping to a crouch, Daniel looks Sam in the eyes.  “So, from the stage during your set, even through the helmet, I’m guessing you could see…”

Sam nods at Daniel, letting his smile fade.  “Yes.  I saw everything until the two of you left the dance floor.  Don’t worry, not my first go ’round.”

Rashid pinches Sam’s side in a gesture of sharp, intentional warning.

Daniel rocks back on his heels, his expression shifting.  “Excuse me?”

Oh, fuck, Sam thinks in Rashid’s direction.  Just fuck.  He didn’t know.

“I knew about Miami,” Daniel says.  “Every other stop on the Carmen Sandiego tour leading up to that, too.  Got it all back when I was turned.  I would’ve gotten it back before that if I’d looked through the files that your boss made your husband?  Companion?  Which do you call Rashid when you’re in mixed company?  That your boss made Rashid put on my laptop.  The part I didn’t know about was that you’re responsible for those surveillance photos in the Night Island file, Sam. Playwright, photographer, DJ.  Your…whatever-he-is, Rashid?  He’s quite the talent.”

Sam stares at the floor.  There’s nothing he can say to apologize, not even that he’d nearly been incinerated by the Florida sun on assignment.

“Get out, please, Mr. Molloy,” Rashid says coolly.  “If you don’t, I won’t make the request as kindly next time.  Sam doesn’t owe you an apology.”

“First, I doubt you’re in any position to ask,” Daniel says, his fangs dropping as he gets to his feet.  “Why hasn’t your companion turned you?”

“Our plans are none of your fuckin’ business!” Sam snaps, lifting his head.  “I know why you’re phrasing it like that, and I don’t appreciate—”

“Second, Sam doesn’t look like he has it in him to take action, but what else is new?” Daniel goads, ignoring Sam, continuing to address Rashid.

Sam sees the door, which Daniel hadn’t shut the whole way, move a fraction.  He should kept an eye on it.  Now, he regrets his distraction.

“You have no idea,” Rashid says, “what a misstep you’ve just made.  On the regular, our current mutual employer treats Sam like you just did.”  Finish the thought, love? Rashid thinks loudly enough for Sam to catch, his apprehension as palpable to Sam as Sam’s is to him.

“But our past one, for all his faults and punitive obligations?  Rarely did,” Sam says, getting to his feet, putting himself between Rashid and the vampire who hesitates in the doorway even if it means letting the blanket fall away, standing there in his rumpled shirt and his boxers.  “Come to collect this one?” he asks as evenly as he can in spite of his fear, producing fire in one hand, pointing at Daniel with the other.  “Long time no see.  Well, not that long.”  Sam swallows as Rashid rises behind him and sets both hands on his hips to steady him.  “Darlin’, don’t—”

“Do you honestly think I’d hurt your lover now if I hadn’t already?” Armand asks Sam, impatient.  “Or you, for that matter?”  Close up, he does look dreadful, like he hasn’t been eating enough by any stretch.  There are reddish tear-tracks evident on Armand’s cheeks.  

“After the night you’ve had?  I wasn’t sure,” Sam replies, extinguishing the flame.  “Rashid’s more than that, not that it matters to you.”

“Of course, here it comes,” Daniel says bitterly, turning toward the doorway to face Armand.  “Preferential treatment for the old guard over—”

“Is that true, Rashid?” Armand asks.  “You’ve been with Sam for so long that you just…brought him to Dubai and kept him hidden away at home?”

“Come on, Armand, don’t be obtuse,” Daniel protests.  “You’ve read the book and annotated it, so you must understand that these two are both—”

Rashid nods, his cheek skimming the side of Sam’s head as he rests it there.  “Yes,” he says, rocking Sam slightly as he holds him.  “That’s correct.”

“Did you know this?” Armand asks Daniel in dismay, finally acknowledging him.  The timing’s downright comedic.  “That they were together?”

Daniel glares at him like he wants to say I hate you.  “Nope,” he says, sticking solely to the question he’s been asked.  “I sure as hell did not.”

Rashid tugs Sam back toward the sofa, pulling him down in his lap.  “Shhh,” he whispers, pulling the blanket back around him, and then kisses him.  Play along, is what Sam hears Rashid think as soon as he’s tapped into his head.  Not that I think either of us needs to play, of course, but it’ll be fun to see what they’re willing to interrupt in order to keep bothering us.  And you look so tempting right now that I can’t help it.

You’re a menace, sweetheart, Sam replies, kissing Rashid back.  Armand had never had patience for flagrant displays of affection between members of the cast on the clock.  Sam is happy to waste Armand’s time now in a way that he’d never gotten the chance to do back then.

“For what it’s worth, Sam,” Armand says, although there’s a moment’s disgruntled hesitation, “you took better shots than Louis did even with subpar late 1970s and early 1980s cameras at your disposal.  I’m in your debt for the body of work I found on Daniel’s laptop.”

You’re fuckin’ welcome, Sam says in psychic reply, letting everyone in the room hear him on an open frequency.  He stifles a whimper as Rashid catches his lower lip between his teeth and slides a hand under his shirt, rubbing the small of his back.  If Rashid wants to play especially dirty, getting Sam well on his way to aroused again is definitely one way to do it.  Don’t fuck it up this time, maître.  You nearly lost him twice.

“Wow,” Daniel says aloud.  “That’s giving Armand an awful lot of credit for my incompetency.”

“You…”  Armand sounds completely lost.  “You don’t blame me for…which time, exactly?”

Clever thing, Rashid thinks, pulling Sam to fully straddle him, making sure the blanket is around Sam’s shoulders.  I’m going to make you feel so good once they’re gone.  I’m going to take these off—he picks at Sam’s boxers—and keep you in my lap for the rest of Lestat’s set, how’s that?

Sam squirms.  He can’t be arsed to care whether they’re alone at this point when he’s fairly sure that means Rashid’s going to fuck him stupid.  After the night he’s had, he doesn’t want to think about anything but riding Rashid while the music is loud enough to cover their noise.

“Didn’t say I don’t blame you,” Daniel says, “but I blame myself, too.”

“You could’ve led with that,” Armand replies, almost in tears.  “I’m…”

“Look at them,” Daniel says, envious.  “Don’t you miss that?  I do.”

“Daniel, I…”  Armand makes a hurt, helpless sound.  “I miss you.”

Sam stops what he’s doing, breathless.  He presses his forehead hard against Rashid’s.  “Do you mean it?”

“Whatever you want,” Rashid whispers back.  I brought what we need from home.  You did so well, love.

There’s not-quite-silence behind them, but Sam isn’t interested in investigating it.  He and Rashid continue to trade soft, lazy kisses of their own while the situation resolves enough for Daniel’s and Armand’s footsteps to retreat toward the door.  They pause one last time.

“You guys are the worst, huh,” Daniel remarks, impressed.

“No, you know that’s not true,” Armand insists.  “It’s still—”

“Armand, you know what I mean.  These two are like high school sweethearts who have no fucking clue what it feels like to be apart.”

“How is that worse than Louis and Lestat?  Furthermore, how is that different from us at our most inseparable?  Or how we are now?”

Sam doesn’t try to pay attention to how the bickering proceeds as they leave the dressing room, slamming and re-locking the door behind them.  He pins Rashid against the back of the sofa on their next kiss, rolling his hips down against Rashid’s like he means business.

“I don’t mind being the worst if it means they’ll leave us alone,” Sam gasps.

Rashid gets his fingers beneath Sam’s waistband.  “I won’t argue with that.”

Chapter 2: After Party

Rashid watches Sam rise on unsteady legs—hair mussed, eyes hazy, lips kiss-stung—and shed his shirt like he’s sorry he’d had to put it back on for Daniel’s and Armand’s intrusion.  Sam must’ve been a vision at the Théâtre des Vampires even in brief walk-ons, Rashid thinks—he imagines what Sam had reconstructed for him one memorable night, smoky eyes and black lips against the painted white of his face.

“Where’s your head right now, darlin’?” Sam asks, running his graceful, splayed hands from his chest to his belly, fluttering his lashes while he’s at it.  He hesitates at the waistband of his boxers, biting his lip with one exposed fang, and Rashid’s cock throbs in his hand as he gives himself another slow, slick stroke.  “Imagining something else while you’re getting yourself ready for me?” Sam pouts, shoving the garment down and off.

Rashid’s mouth goes dry at the sight of Sam’s flushed cock already leaking pink against Sam’s belly as he traps it there with one hand.  “Imagining you in your stage makeup,” he sighs, and Sam’s breath escapes him on a cry.  “Let me take care of you,” Rashid says, reaching for him.

Sam stumbles into Rashid’s lap.  Whatever Lestat’s playing now is violin-heavy; Sam is a quivering mess.  “Don’t, I don’t know,” Sam gasps, watching Rashid get more lubricant on his fingers, “if I can…”  He goes up on his knees at Rashid’s urging, keeping his face buried in the crook of his arm against the back of the sofa as Rashid works one finger into him.  “Fuck, fuck ” Sam whines, bearing down as Rashid works in a second, curling both fingers where Sam likes the pressure most.  “Are you trying to get me off before you’re even…”  He pants harshly.

“Breathe for me, love,” Rashid soothes, kissing Sam’s shoulder, steadying him with his free hand still molded against Sam’s hip.  “I know you technically don’t need to, but please breathe.”  He fucks Sam with two fingers for another minute or so, enjoying the helpless whimpers that Sam stifles against his forearm.  “Come here,” Rashid coaxes softly once it’s obvious that Sam is finding it increasingly tricky to respond, easing his fingers free so that he can gently grasp Sam’s hips with both hands.  “Do you still want to do this, or did my fingers feel good?”

Sam braces one hand stubbornly on Rashid’s shoulder, reaching behind himself with the other as Rashid lowers him.  He grasps Rashid’s cock, squeezing it affectionately, sending sparks down Rashid’s spine.  “If I ever turn down the chance to sit on your cock, there’s something wrong with me,” Sam hisses between clenched teeth as he sinks down on him halfway without warning.  “Oh my fuckin’—”  He kisses Rashid messy and desperate, letting Rashid ease him the rest of the way down with shaking hands.  “Ah, that’s just—ah, you’re lovely.  Rashid.”

Rashid wraps his arms around Sam’s waist, nuzzling Sam’s cheek as heat pools in his belly.  Sam has fed twice this evening, tiny amounts from club-goers on their way in and then from Rashid.  He’s burning inside, clenched so tight around Rashid that he doesn’t really need to move.

“Sweet, pretty thing,” Rashid gasps, kissing Sam hungrily.  He pushes up into Sam when Sam’s squirming feels more frustrated than coherent; that seems to help Sam find an angle that suits him, a pattern of grinding down against the press of Rashid’s cock inside him that makes him stifle a wail against Rashid’s neck.  “So—so close, mera dil,” Rashid falters, bouncing him slightly.  “I know—ah, fuck, know you must be—”

Sam shudders and cries, coming in hot, delicate spurts of blood between them.  He presses so close against Rashid that he nearly unseats himself.

Overwhelmed, Rashid thrusts once, twice, and that’s all it takes to lose himself.  Trembling all over, he thinks: Love you so much, Sam, don’t know what I’d do without you, I want to be with you until there’s nothing left of this world, my heart, until the sun swallows us all.

“That’s grim,” Sam sighs contentedly, his voice a touch raw.  “Who knew you were such a romantic beneath that stoic exterior?”  He kisses Rashid’s shoulder and then bites the spot tenderly, his fangs no longer extended.  “Hope I made you feel half as good as you made me feel, darlin’,” Sam adds, playing with Rashid’s hair.  “That one’s a banger, isn’t it?  The ill-fated young violinist was before my time.  Wish I’d met him.”

“Must be nearing the end of his main set,” Rashid manages hoarsely, indulging Sam when he lifts his head for a kiss.  “You always make me feel good.  I promise.”  He returns Sam’s sheepish smile, kissing him a touch off-center this time.  “You’re precious, know that?”

“Fuck right off.”  Sam rolls his eyes, but he nuzzles Rashid’s cheek so adoringly that Rashid’s heart can’t help but skip a beat.  “Don’t tell anyone, but I would’ve killed to hear that back in the day,” he admits.  “Armand told me I was adorable once and…don’t know, nearly caved.”

“Armand’s loss is my gain,” Rashid replies.  “Get the towel?  I’ll clean us up so we can put ourselves back together and cuddle through the encores.”

“He even makes good on his promises,” Sam says to an imaginary audience, extending his arm, and the towel flies into his hand.  “What a keeper.”

Rashid enjoys cuddling as much as Sam does, although Sam is so clingy that Rashid remembers having been startled by it at first.  It’s warm under the blanket once they’re dry and back in their now rumpled, slightly stained clothing; it’s fortunate that they both prefer to wear so much black and dark indigo.  Rashid isn’t sure at what point they doze off during one of Lestat’s softer, slower numbers, but it’s not knocking that wakes him this time.  It’s someone standing over him and Sam with their head tilted to one side like they’re examining insects or inanimate objects.

“What are you doing in here?” Rashid asks, clutching Sam tighter against his chest.  “He’s exhausted after opening for you.  Let him rest.”

“What are you doing still here?” Lestat asks.  He’s drained in his own right, streaks of eyeliner running through the glitter on his cheeks.

“We fuckin’ live here, for one,” Sam says groggily, rubbing his cheek against Rashid’s shoulder before wriggling around in Rashid’s embrace to face Lestat.  “What’s with you moody teenagers walking in on us tonight?  Nothing better to do than terrorize the local fledglings?”

“You’re not quite a fledgling anymore,” Lestat remarks.  He sits down cross-legged on the floor, peering at Sam.  “But still young enough to think taking a mortal lover won’t end in ruin.”  He glances aside, his lips bitterly twisting.  “Take it from me, playwright.  It always does.”

“Fuck off,” Sam says, sitting up.  “My maker’s a millennium and a half older than yours was.  And they’re still around.”  He sniffs.  “Rashid knows what he’s about.  We know what we’re about.  Supernatural espionage takes a toll.  You trauma bond like nobody’s business.”

Lestat tilts his head at them again, but this time it carries comprehension.  “You’re Talamasca.  They’ve sent you to keep an eye on me?”

“Partly, but…no, not exactly,” Rashid sighs, sitting up next to Sam.  “They sent us to keep an eye on certain parties who might turn up.”

“Oh,” Lestat replies, unsurprised, making an exasperated gesture.  “And of course they did.  Both of them.  So dramatic, aren’t they?  So inconsiderate, too.  I wondered what the disturbance back here was about.  Granted, Daniel is welcome, rude or not.  The other one, not so much.”

“We handled it,” Sam says irritably, running his fingers through his hair so the ashen waves fall every which way and glint in the low light.  It’s a different kind of charming than the center part that Rashid knows he’d worn in the past.  “They might plague you again, though.  And again.”

“The audience enjoyed you in spite of your distraction toward the end,” Lestat says, his tilted smile curving the curious scar at one corner of his mouth upward.  “I could tell.”  He considers Rashid thoughtfully.  “Is this…incredibly handsome partner in crime also your agent?”

Rashid glances at Sam for permission to speak, and Sam gives him a relieved nod.  “I’m the closest thing he has to one, yes.  Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to ask you along for the rest of the tour,” Lestat says, “because it would save Christine the trouble of negotiating a new opening act for every stop to come.”  His expression turns conflicted.  “However, it wasn’t you we dealt with, unless your name is Raglan James?”

“I’m Rashid Ranghar.  That was our Talamasca manager.  I truly regret that your…agent?  Lawyer?  Both?  Had the misfortune of meeting him.”

“There wasn’t much to recommend him.  Now that I know Mr. James isn’t Mr. Barclay’s agent, we can renegotiate.  I have one condition, though.”

“What might that be?” Sam asks warily

“No more playing spies,” Lestat replies.

“Oh, I’d be fine with that,” Rashid says.

“We have one foot out the door,” Sam sighs.  “Rashid isn’t long for this world as it is, as long as we can…”  He trails off.  “We’re working on it.”

Lestat breaks into a wistful, knowing grin.  “There it is.  I was wondering when your plans to turn him would—” his expression changes as Sam, his demeanor vulnerable, telegraphs the situation to him.  “Ah.  That catch stays you young ones’ fangs so often these days.”

“We are not asking,” Rashid insists firmly.  “You’ve been through enough, and—”

“Why are you not asking?” Lestat parries soberly.  “Consider it a signing bonus.”

Sam blinks at Lestat.  “You must be joking,” he says, stupefied.  “Did I hear you correctly?  As long as we tell Raglan and the Order to go hang, you’d turn my companion and sign me for the rest of the tour?  That’s, about what…just under twenty dates remaining, give or take?”

“Fourteen,” Lestat says.  “Also, when you say you live here, please tell me you don’t mean here-here.  Worcester is dire.  If I’d known, I would’ve insisted on playing Boston.  This is what I get for not paying enough attention to New England when I first arrived on these shores.”

“We live in Cambridge,” Rashid says.  “You should’ve booked a venue there.”

“Too late for that now,” Lestat says, getting to his feet.  He brushes his hands off.  “Grubby place, isn’t it?”  He gives the two of them respectful, appraising looks this time.  “We’ll have to pack up your equipment and do this on the road,” he continues.  “What do you think?”

Before Rashid can think loudly enough in Sam’s direction to initiate a private conversation, the dressing room door opens.  An imposing, dark-haired vampire with flashing fire-opal eyes strides in with Gabrielle de Lioncourt hot on their heels.  Rashid recognizes them.

“I tried to keep everyone out!” Gabrielle says to Lestat in frustration.  “There’s—”

“Oi, you!” Petronia snaps, pointing at Sam.  “Idiot!  You’d better think twice if—”

“The fuck are you doing here?” Sam blurts, staring at his maker.  “I had no clue—”

“Everyone?” Lestat echoes, staring from Petronia to Sam and back again.  “Who—”

“Fortunately, Sam,” slurs an ominously familiar voice from the hall, and then the owner stumbles into the room with another ominously familiar party on his heels, “you haven’t waited too long.  You’re about at the upper limit of where you’d…”  Armand waves a hand, and then Daniel catches him around the waist, similarly clumsy, trying to drag him back out into the hall.  “Where you’d want to wait.  Take it from me.”

“Are you drunk, maître?” Sam asks in horror, rising from the sofa.  “I thought you left.”

“Trashed,” Daniel says.  “And, yeah, you wouldn’t want to wait, because Rashid here would end up looking like…”  He waves a hand at himself.

“Darling, don’t say that!” Armand protests, hanging on Daniel’s neck.  “You’re so beautiful now, that’s not what I…”  He leans into Daniel’s kiss.

“Oh, I see,” Lestat murmurs in abject bafflement.  “They’re both three sheets to the wind.”

“Yes,” Rashid sighs, rubbing his face, “but they’d be exactly like this if they were sober.”

“Was Dubai this bad?” Petronia asks Sam, rushing to him, putting both hands on his cheeks.

“This bad?” Sam echoes matter-of-factly, lifting Petronia’s hands away.  “Just shy of it!”

Armand finishes kissing Daniel with a hum, waving his hand at Lestat.  “Rashid, you can’t let…”  He leans away from Daniel just enough to glare at Lestat and then give Rashid a meaningful look.  “I should be the one to do it, if you’ll let me.  I’ve had practice.”

“I’m sorry,” Daniel blurts, staring at Armand.  “What.  You’re calling me practice?”

“You turned out so well, beloved,” Armand insists, taking Daniel’s face in his hands.

Petronia gives Sam a hard look, and then appeals to Rashid.  “The two of you are coming with me.  We’ll sort this out at yours.  Understood?”

“I don’t know about that,” Sam says, taking Rashid’s hand.  “We were about to enter into a business agreement with Monsieur de Lioncourt.”

“That’s foolish even for you, Sam,” Armand scoffs.  “You would seriously let him, Rashid?”

Rashid shrugs.  “It’s definitely a less messy prospect than my former employer.  Maybe a less messy prospect than my companion’s maker.”

“There’s nothing emotional about it,” Lestat says, smirking at Petronia and Armand in turn.

“Are you an idiot, too?” Petronia asks Rashid.  “Sincere question.  I didn’t think you were.”

Gabrielle leans against the wall next to the dressing table.  “This is why I avoid all of you like the plague,” she says with mock sweetness.

“The feeling is mutual,” Armand replies in the same treacly tone, resisting Daniel’s attempts to drag him out of the room.  “Rashid, don’t—”

“Come on, princess,” Daniel says, tugging Armand back around into his arms.  “I’ll get however nice a hotel you want.  No strings attached.”

“I didn’t need to hear that,” Lestat says in disgust, stepping in closer to Petronia, Sam, and Rashid.  “Petronia of Pompeii?” he asks.

“That’s me,” Petronia says wryly.  “Came to cheer the ungrateful fledgling on.  In retrospect, maybe I should’ve told him I’d be here.”

Rashid rubs his temples, staggering back to sit on the sofa.  Sam, he thinks, this is overwhelming.  Maybe it’s a mistake to involve anyone else.

Oh, darlin’, Sam replies in alarm, glancing behind him at Rashid, and then furiously at the entire room of fractious vampires.  “You lot,” he says, pointing at Armand, Daniel, and Gabrielle.  “Sorry to make such a blunt request, but get the hell out.  You’ve upset my companion.”

Armand and Daniel don’t need to be asked twice, but Gabrielle pushes away from the wall, striking a confrontational stance.  “And my son?”

“Lestat and Petronia can stay,” Rashid says, glancing up at both of them apologetically.

“Mercurial one you’ve got there,” Gabrielle says before strolling out.  “Still young, too.”

“He turns thirty-four this year!” Sam shouts after her.  “What about you?  Haven’t grown out of your roadie phase?  Get a fuckin’ hobby!”

Petronia makes a disappointed face at Sam.  “You haven’t worked on the temper, I see.”

“Sam’s doing well tonight considering the strain,” Rashid says as Sam sinks next to him.

“I get it,” Lestat sighs, folding his arms across his chest.  “He’s a particular one like…”  He waves one grudging hand toward the door.

“Be careful what you say next,” Rashid says, sliding a protective arm around Sam’s waist.  “I can’t tell which way that statement goes.”

Petronia rubs their forehead.  “What are your intentions toward my fledgling’s companion if Sam signs this contract, Mr. de Lioncourt?”

“I’ll turn him and leave him to the tender mercies of his husband, of course,” Lestat says gravely.  “Not an easy transition while on the road, but Mr. Barclay has been nothing but solicitous toward Mr. Ranghar in my company.  These two seem…exceptionally devoted to each other.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Petronia says under their breath.  “Fine.  I’ll tag along.”

“Why?” Sam protests.  “It’s not as if you’ve been anything but a deadbeat until now!”

“Only until the job’s done,” Petronia says.  “I’ll do it at the next stop and be gone.”

Lestat shrugs, eyeing Sam reasonably.  “That way you and I can perform, at least.”

“Don’t start till I’m off the stage tomorrow night,” Sam says to Petronia.  “Swear it.”

“I’d never do it without you by his side, you git,” Petronia replies.  “Fucking hell.”

“Are you sure you want to join the world’s worst extended family?” Lestat asks Rashid.  “Because that’s what we are, make no mistake.”

Rashid nods at Lestat, grinning as the bickering continues.  Some things never change.  Fortunately, Sam can’t stand those things, either.

Chapter 3: Any Hotel

Daniel would say that he can’t believe he’s going to be leaving his car in a Worcester, Massachusetts garage for a couple of days and nights, except: one, he and Armand are both too drunk to drive without risking a wreck; two, he’s not sure Armand can drive; three, if they get a hotel and things continue like this, that’s how long they’ll be in the room.  Daniel’s glad that his multi-million-dollar paydirt from Louis will go toward as noble a cause as half a week of public parking while he and Armand have emotional make-up sex.  He’s not too proud to admit that.

“Any hotel?” Armand mumbles as Daniel hustles him into the back seat of an Uber.  He refuses to scoot over the whole way, so Daniel buckles him into the middle seat, buckles his own belt, and then sighs as Armand sprawls most of the way into his lap anyway.  “Promise?”

“Yeah,” Daniel sighs, not even bothering to tug his shades back down from the top of his head as the middle-aged woman at the wheel turns to curiously peer at them.  “Give me just a sec,” he tells her apologetically, and then strokes Armand’s face.  “Hey, babe?  You’ll have to tell me where we’re going so I can change our destination in the app, because I totally just punched in the most expensive place that came up when I googled.  At this point in time, that’s the Harbor Hotel on Rowe’s Wharf.  Thought you might like to watch the ships tomorrow while I’m asleep.”

Armand presses his face into the curve of Daniel’s neck.  “I want to go to the Copley,” he replies in a startlingly small voice.  “I can understand if you might not want to given our history there, but…you did make the mistake of saying that it was my choice.  Change it, darling.”

Daniel feels his heart just about stop.  He has one hand against the back of Armand’s head before he knows it, amending their destination on his phone with the other.  “Fairmont Copley Plaza,” Daniel tells the driver.  “There’s no accounting for convenience and nostalgia, I guess.”

“Sure thing,” says the driver, tilting her head at Armand as Daniel strokes his hair.  “Is he okay?  I have bottles of water up here if—”

“We’re not paying you to ask.  I’m fine,” Armand cuts in, refusing to lift his head.  “I had some while we were in the club.  Just drive.”

“Sorry.  No manners,” Daniel mouths at the driver.  And then, as she turns to the wheel and pulls into the street, he offers, “Thanks!”

“I heard that,” Armand says once they’ve been on the road for five minutes.  “Rude.”

“I don’t care,” Daniel replies, tapping the back of Armand’s head.  “You’re rude.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

The driver turns the radio up so loud that Armand jumps in Daniel’s embrace.  He clings, fine tremors racing through him for several minutes afterward.  That’s when Daniel realizes exactly how much worse Armand’s condition is than his own, which…isn’t shocking, exactly.

As annoyed as Daniel is, he doesn’t let go of Armand for the remainder of the hour-long ride.  He presses his lips against the top of Armand’s head, thinking of every time in the past that Armand had shown up with a driver and pulled his unsober ass into the back of a car.

When they eventually stumble out of the SUV at the Copley, Armand fobs an absurd amount of cash from his coat pocket off on the driver.  That, too, feels nostalgic.  Daniel tries not to dwell on it as he keeps Armand upright on their way in, muttering thanks to the bellhop.

Thankfully, the concierge isn’t disdainful about the way they’re dressed or that they smell like they’ve shared a bottle of vodka.  That’s even before Daniel books the most expensive room they have for four nights just to be on the safe side; if he misses Albany, Hartford, New Haven, and Newark, he won’t consider those tour stops any loss.  He guesses that it’s still the case that not many people take the king suites sight unseen.

Once they’re upstairs, Armand collapses on the edge of the bed and stares at the floor, chewing his lip while Daniel goes to the windows and makes sure the heavy velvet curtains are all drawn.  “We should sleep with the covers over our heads tomorrow, too, just in case.”

“Since when do you need sleep these days?” Daniel asks, coming back to stand before Armand.  He removes his jacket, tossing it on the floor.

“Since I’ve damned near starved myself while pursuing you—and Lestat by extension, not by choice—all over this godforsaken country,” Armand replies.  He struggles out of his fraying coat, letting it pool behind him.  “What?  Why are you looking at me like that?”

“As if that were new,” Daniel says, kicking out of his Chelsea boots.  “You were pretty close to starving yourself during the interview in Dubai.”

“You’re still cross with me for being rude in the car,” Armand remarks with faint irritation as he glances up at Daniel.  “I overtipped the driver.”

“Not that!  It’s what you said to Sam about not waiting too long to turn Rashid,” Daniel replies.  “Did you really think your attempt at claiming—”

“All I meant by it,” Armand says with hushed contrition, fretfully tugging the ratty black elastic out of his hair, “was that, if Sam had risked waiting as many decades as I did, then he would’ve had to watch the vagaries of age and illness make Rashid suffer more than they already have in his several short decades of life.  Watching age and illness make you suffer, it’s—” blood tears flood Armand’s eyes as he covers his mouth with one shaking hand “—one of the greatest regrets of my existence.  But the beauty age has given you?  That, I can never regret.”

Daniel lingers a few seconds over the vision before him—not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he knows he’ll want to remember it for as long as he endures.  For as long as they endure, if fate is kind.  Fuck Sam’s words very much, but Armand’s otherworldliness, eternally young and eternally ancient, still stops his heart.  Armand’s tangled curls frame his face now, skimming his tear-stained cheeks.  Daniel wants to kiss the worry from Armand’s brow once and for all, and so he steps forward.  He takes Armand’s lovely face in his hands.

“What are you doing?” Armand whispers, grasping Daniel’s wrists.  “I misspoke earlier.  I didn’t make my meaning clear enough.  I insulted you.”

“I know,” Daniel replies, kissing Armand’s forehead, “but you also clarified just now.”  He kisses down the bridge of Armand’s nose, satisfied by Armand’s tremulous intake of breath, and then kisses his eyelids.  “You’ve tried to understand my pain, but I haven’t returned the favor.  I can’t claim that you had no reason to run after turning me.  I haven’t been kind to you.  Most of the men in your life haven’t been.”  Daniel kisses Armand’s cheeks.  “I never stopped loving you,” he says, settling on his knees before Armand.  “I’ll never leave you again.”

Armand looks so overwhelmed he can’t speak, which…that’s always the risk of making such a confession.  This particular variety of Daniel putting his foot in his mouth had happened plenty in the past, even if well-intentioned.  Usually, the only thing for it had been to kiss Armand, lay him down, and let him decide what came next.  Armand looks fragile now, looks like he’s waiting.  He inhales, parting his lips.

“You called me princess,” Armand says haltingly.  “Back at the club.”

“Sure did,” Daniel agrees, smiling at him.  “Haven’t done that in ages.”

“I’ve missed that,” Armand admits, his eyes refilling with blood tears.

“I’ll call you whatever you want,” Daniel promises.  Fuck, he feels thirty again, maybe even younger.  How the hell does Armand do this?

“What are we doing?” Armand asks hesitantly, taking hold of Daniel’s hands.  He drags them to his hips, molding them there.  “Because I…”

Daniel leans in and kisses Armand, sliding his arms around Armand’s waist.  He feels Armand’s legs wrap around his hips, Armand’s ankles lock behind him (those fucking smartass Docs with the same Bosch print as his puzzle).  That may be a sound hint that he should proceed.

“Whatever you want,” Daniel says, checking Armand’s eyes for confirmation.  “If that’s kiss for a few hours until dawn and then pass out?  Cool.”

“Don’t dismiss your desires in favor of anything else,” Armand insists, pulling Daniel’s shades off the top of his head, dropping them on the floor.

“Mmm, nope,” Daniel says, peeling Armand’s legs from around him.  “We’re not doing shit tonight, in which case.”  He unlaces Armand’s boots.

“Why not, beloved?  You’ve nearly fucked how many vampires on this tour so far?”

“Nearly is the key word, okay?  Not a single one would’ve satisfied me, princess.”

“What I’m hearing is that I won’t satisfy you, either, now that you have me at your—”

“You heard Sam.  You’re drunk.  I heard you just now.  That wasn’t a clear answer.”

Armand makes a face at Daniel as he removes his boots for him.  “You infuriate me.”

“Don’t care,” Daniel replies, tossing the Docs over his shoulder one at a time.  “Up.”

Rising from the bed with his arms folded across his chest, Armand watches Daniel tug down the covers.  “What next?  Can I even get undressed?”

“Sure, you can,” Daniel replies, taking off his jeans, and then tugs Armand in to undo his for him.  “I’d be extremely disappointed if you didn’t.”

“Next sunset,” Armand begins, hanging onto Daniel as he helps him out of his jeans, “can we—”

“If you want me when you’re sober,” Daniel replies, coaxing Armand to lie down.  “Bedtime.”

Chapter 4: Fangs Deep

Armand wakes feeling rested—shielded, safe—for the first time since he’d had a consistent roof over his head in Dubai.  Even there, though, he’d rarely slept long.  In all his years with Louis after they’d left Paris, he realizes, he’d rarely slept more than half the day.

Armand closes his eyes, burying his face in the curve of Daniel’s neck.  Other details filter in now that he’s fully aware of his surroundings—the covers are no longer over his head, which means that Daniel had awakened first, but not risen for fear of disturbing him.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” Daniel sighs, strangely earnest even though he’s using an endearment that he’d once favored for getting a rise out of Armand.  “Bad dream?  I wouldn’t blame you.  First time sharing a bed with me in decades, and…here, of all places.”

“Couldn’t you wait five minutes to put your foot in it?” Armand replies, but he can’t stay vexed when Daniel has begun to pet his hair with one hand and has worked the other beneath his shirt to rub his back.  His fangs emerge; he grazes them over Daniel’s skin.

Daniel shudders, clutching Armand tighter against himself.  With their legs so tangled, their hips pressed so close, Armand can feel how hard Daniel is against him, and even just this soothes an ache that Armand has failed to suppress for years.  “Are you…?”

“Yes,” Armand whispers, licking away the drops of blood he’s drawn, lingering to feel Daniel’s flesh knit of its own accord beneath his tongue.  “I’m sober, beloved.”  He lifts his head, pressing his forehead against Daniel’s before kissing him.  “I want you.”

“Want you, too.” Daniel rolls Armand over against the pillows.  He throws the covers off them the rest of the way, settling on his knees between Armand’s spread thighs.  “How about we take these off?” He continues, picking at Armand’s shirt and boxers.

Armand glances up at Daniel, winding his fingers fretfully in the hem of Daniel’s tee.  “Yours first?” he asks, entirely earnest.  “Please?”

“Jesus,” Daniel breathes.  He pulls the shirt up and over his head, a fluid movement.  “Sure hope you do still find me beautiful, because—”

Armand catches Daniel around the waist, dragging him down against himself, kissing him fiercely.  He shoves Daniel’s boxers down; Daniel takes over and gets them the rest of the way off without shifting their positions that much.  Armand jolts, realizing that Daniel is warm.

“When did you feed tonight?” Armand blurts, clinging to Daniel desperately.  “I’m sure I would’ve noticed had you gotten out of bed.”

“You totally didn’t,” Daniel says, kissing Armand’s forehead.  “You were fucking exhausted, and—” he kisses his way from Armand’s temple down to his cheek, and then his jaw, and then his neck “—I ate way too much.”  He kisses Armand’s neck, teasing gently with his fangs, barely breaking skin, and then nips the hollow of Armand’s throat.  “I’m gonna let you feed in a sec, but you’ve got to let me get your clothes off.”

“Please,” Armand begs, snapping his eyes shut as Daniel tugs his shirt up and wrestles it off him.  He trembles against the sheets as Daniel removes his boxers next, unable to catch his breath when Daniel dips and kisses his breastbone with reverence.  “Daniel, I can’t—”

“Shhh, Armand,” Daniel cuts him off.  He presses another slow, achingly tender line of kisses from Armand’s nipples—which he licks and worries with his teeth, equally unhurried—down to below Armand’s navel.  “I don’t care when you come, okay?  But I admit that I’d like for it to be when you’re fangs deep.”  He kisses Armand’s cock with such tender familiarity that it feels as if they’ve never parted.  “Or I could do this,” he amends, licking away the pinkish rivulet Armand has been leaking.  “Guess I’m no pickier than I used to be, but I hate to see you hungry.”

Armand blinks through a tearful haze.  There’s so much he wishes he could project into Daniel’s mind—I’ve feared loving you too little; I’ve despaired of ever being worthy of you; I can’t believe you’ve taken me back—but none of that matters in this moment.  Armand sobs as Daniel crawls back up to settle against him, slides a hand behind Armand’s head, and bares his neck so that Armand can sink his fangs.

Daniel hisses in shock, but that fades as soon as he realizes Armand has only taken a few swallows of blood before coming so hard that he’s shaking uncontrollably beneath him.  “There,” Daniel whispers, stroking Armand’s hair.  “Missed this so much.  Missed you.”

Armand barely collects himself enough to take another handful of swallows.  He disengages his fangs from Daniel’s neck, letting his limbs fall slack, shuddering with aftershocks.  Daniel’s still holding Armand and soothing him, kissing his neck between murmured words of praise in his ear.  Daniel kisses Armand on the lips as soon as he’s managed to draw a few tremulous breaths, brushing Armand’s hair back.

“Why are you being so kind?” Armand manages, resigned to the fact that his treacherous eyes are streaming tears on the pillows.

“Miss the part where I still fuckin’ love you?” Daniel sighs, wiping Armand’s cheeks.  “Try to keep up, huh?  It’ll save me repeating—”

“Call me rude ever again,” Armand says sweetly, flipping Daniel over so fast that he looks startled, “and I won’t reciprocate ever again.”  Laughing with disbelieving joy, Armand rocks back on his heels before shifting to settle on his belly between Daniel’s splayed legs.  “You should see the look on your face,” he sighs, taking Daniel’s cock in his hand, suckling the head to show he means business.  “I wasn’t serious.”

Daniel threads his fingers in Armand’s hair, his eyelids fluttering as Armand licks teasingly into his slit.  “I got that.  You’re still the worst.”

“Don’t care.  Eyes on me,” Armand says, stroking Daniel’s hips before using both hands to pin him.  “Every time you close them, I’ll stop.”

Chapter 5: All Costs

The young lovers’ gentleness with each other is sickening, envy inducingly so, but Lestat doesn’t stop watching even though blood as bitter as bile rises in his throat.  He hadn’t meant to spy on them this time.  The first time, though?  Absolutely.  Lestat had heard them carrying on throughout the entirety of his set the other night, so he’d broken into his opening act’s dressing room as soon as he was offstage just to investigate the ominous silence that had eventually fallen.  Lestat would’ve disliked needing to clean up after the gremlin and the journalist, but instead he’d found himself staring down at the Talamasca agents fast asleep in each others’ arms on the shoddy sofa.  The mortal had been awake in seconds, as fearless and protective of the vampire in his embrace as Lestat had once wished that Louis, as a mortal, would’ve been of him.

Now, Lestat is stuck in the tour bus toilet because—during what he’s assumed to be the short amount of time he’s been sulking in it to check his mascara, fuss with his hair, and avoid his mother’s pre-show nagging—the erstwhile playwright and his now fledgling companion have roused and pushed the lid of the double-wide guest coffin, built into the back of the bus where several rows of seats had once been, wide open.  Sam has been plastered to Rashid’s side since his maker, Petronia, had turned Rashid for him the previous night after the show and buggered off.  Lestat suspects there won’t be any persuading Sam to take the stage this evening, judging by the way he’s fretting over Rashid.  Lestat has soundlessly pushed the door open a fraction and is peering out; just his luck, he has a clear view of what’s happening in the coffin.

Sam has been kissing all over Rashid’s face for the past minute, and now he’s reached Rashid’s lips.  “Thank fuckin’ everything unholy,” he whispers as they break for breath, cupping Rashid’s cheek as he presses another kiss to the corner of his mouth.  “You woke up.”

“Is there a chance I might not have?” Rashid asks hoarsely, running his fingers through Sam’s hair.  “You’re relieved.  Something must’ve…”

“I had to commandeer your nervous system,” Sam replies, running his hand from Rashid’s cheek to his neck, brushing over the healed skin where Petronia had bitten him.  “Made you hold the blood down, swallow after swallow, when your body tried to reject it.”  He trails his hand over the expanse of Rashid’s bare chest, stroking through the sparse, dark hair there, dipping it beneath the blankets tangled around them to rest in the vicinity of Rashid’s belly.  “Rashid,” Sam whispers, stroking tentatively when Rashid guides his hand lower, “I almost lost you.”

Rashid moans into Sam’s mouth when Sam kisses him again, helplessly pushing his hips up against whatever Sam has begun to do with his hand.  “Oh,” he gasps, startled, his fangs extending for what might be the first time ever, “my God, oh my—Sam, please, fuck—”

Lestat isn’t prepared for how Sam reacts as Rashid comes no sooner than he’s been touched, sobbing and shaking as he presses his face into the curve of Sam’s neck.  Lestat ought to have been prepared given the tone of every other affectionate exchange he’s seen between these two, but this moment’s intimacy goes far beyond the witnessing of a near-total stranger’s orgasm.  That happens all the time.  But what doesn’t happen all the time is Lestat offering such unconditional encouragement and praise to a lover when things end before they’ve really gotten started.

“Oh, darlin’,” Sam whispers against Rashid’s cheek, without even the faintest trace of laughter in his voice.  “That’s good,” he murmurs, easing off rubbing between Rashid’s legs, just cupping and applying pressure to his cock when it’s obvious Rashid’s new, heightened senses make any other continued touch too much to bear.  “There you are,” Sam continues, reverently nuzzling Rashid’s neck.  “Just breathe through it.  There.”

Rashid tips his head back against the pillow, his eyes flying wide open, trembling violently with aftershocks.  The post-transformation shade of his irises glows eerily in the low-lit space.  Rashid’s green eyes are brighter than Louis’s—electric, like absinthe or chartreuse, ringed with a darker forest shade—but in Lestat’s world, irony takes no prisoners.  He might be the most beautiful fledgling that Lestat has seen since Louis.

“Sam,” Rashid whimpers, his eyes fluttering shut, tossing his head against the pillow.  “Sam,” he says again, panting as Sam eases his hand away from his hypersensitive cock and trails light fingers through the spurts of blood he’s left on his own belly.  “I can’t—sorry, was that—”

Sam cuts Rashid off with a tender kiss, and then rests his forehead against Rashid’s as he brings his bloody fingers to his lips.  Sam sucks on them like the brat Lestat would be willing to bet that he is in and out of bed—and Rashid looks up at him with so much love in his gaze, forget about lust, that Lestat wants to rip the toilet’s door off its hinges and storm off the bus.  These two have their emotional shit so together that he’s questioning the wisdom of his decision to sign Sam as his opener for the remainder of the tour.  They make Lestat feel incompetent.

“Do you see why I’m always off like a shot?” Sam murmurs as Rashid takes his hand and kisses it.  “Although I do think a lot of that’s just you.”

“Just me?” Rashid teases.  He grins as Sam slides a leg over him, setting both hands on Sam’s hips as he shifts to straddle him.  “Oof, careful.”

“You’re so fuckin’ hot I can’t help myself,” Sam sighs, whining as Rashid…well, with Sam’s back to him and Rashid’s upper body and face obscured, he’s not sure, but Rashid has moved one hand such that he’s probably teasing Sam’s cock.  “Not like that’s going to change any.”

“I’m not hotter now?”

“Fuckin’ smart-arse.”

“Here, love.  Mmm.”

Lestat is grateful that they’re almost done, because he can’t take any further reminders of what he doesn’t have.  He can’t bring himself to budge yet, either, as Rashid coaxes Sam to scoot up enough to let him get his mouth on Sam’s cock.  This is what he’d heard evidence of the other night; Sam is unapologetic about being loud, a sobbing mess by the time Rashid has finished sucking him off.  They cuddle and whisper comforting nonsense to each other for an insufferably long time afterward, at which point Lestat groans, slams the door open, and stomps out.

“Oi!” Sam makes a grab for the stained blankets, shielding Rashid with his body in the same way Rashid had shielded his back at the club in Worcester.  “That’s the second time we’ve caught you!” he shouts after Lestat.  “Do it again, and I’m breaking our fuckin’ contract!”

“Accidental this time, I assure you!” Lestat calls as he struts down the stairs toward the curb.  “You’re on in less than forty minutes!”

Sam rushes down the stairs after him, but stops just shy of disembarking the lowest one onto the sidewalk behind the venue.  He’s barefoot and wrapped comically in one of the rumpled blankets—his arms tightly folded, his pale eyes blazing, his wavy hair a wild mess.

“I’m not performing tonight,” Sam says stubbornly.  He flips off a passing member of backstage crew that pauses to gawk at him while he’s not wearing his helmet, and then adds, “Rashid’s seen me hunt almost every night for a decade, but that doesn’t mean he won’t need—”

“I’ll have blood bags delivered to your dressing room,” Lestat sighs, putting on his shades.  “Live donors, if you prefer.  Start teaching him the little drink.  I should’ve known you’d be a diva.  Everyone in that company was, even those of you that came after my time.”

“I’m not going on,” Sam repeats.  “Tomorrow night.  I should’ve had Rashid add a clause stating that the night after his turning, I wouldn’t—”

“Great!” Lestat snaps. “We’ll announce that the opening act is ill.  This the only time you’ll get away with it.  Don’t make me regret this.”

“The only thing you regret is that Louis isn’t here,” Rashid says from further within the bus.  It only takes a few seconds for him to appear behind Sam—shirtless except for a pair of jeans, unfairly attractive indeed, Christ—and come down a few stairs to slide an arm around Sam’s middle, tugging at him.  “Come on, love,” he whispers in Sam’s ear, nuzzling it.  “This isn’t worth the headache.  Come back to coffin.”

Lestat slams the bus door in their faces and stalks through the backstage entrance, satisfied by the shockingly belligerent blue streak Sam curses after him.  He should’ve left these ex-Talamasca twats where he’d found them in the middle of nowhere Central Massachusetts, except he can’t help but recognize that Rashid is worth his weight in unmatched wits and exquisite blood now that he’s been turned.  Sam brings a considerable fan base, true, but he brings even more value with a companion shrewd enough to replace Christine if the need should arise.

Replace her if needed?  Only in an emergency, Rashid says in Lestat’s mind, already using the Mind Gift like a pro.  And even then? Only if you give Sam exactly what he wants, whenever he wants.  You know what it means to be so in love—and to protect that love at all costs.

Fledglinghood is wasted on you, Mr. Ranghar, Lestat replies, falling into step beside his smirking mother as she peels out of the shadows just before he reaches this dressing room.  Fine.  Whatever the DJ wants, whenever he wants.  I’ll have Christine add the clause.

Chapter 6: For Luck

Even though they’d gotten off on the wrong foot during the dressing room clash in Worcester, Gabrielle has decided she likes Sam.  He’s earnest, prickly, observant, sharp-tongued, and takes no shit—not even from Lestat, which would’ve been enough on its own to win her respect.  Sam also has the kind of taste in men that Gabrielle wishes her son had boasted from the get-go.  If nobody else had stepped up to turn Rashid on Sam’s behalf, Gabrielle would’ve sunk her fangs in that handsome, sensible neck if only to turn Lestat even greener with envy.

Admittedly, Gabrielle is glad it hadn’t come to that.  It’s taken several stops since Hartford—where Lestat had landed himself in hot water with his opening act by not disembarking the tour bus as soon as he’d realized that the lovebirds were awake—but she’s gotten Sam’s feathers nearly smoothed.  Gabrielle had found hunting the streets of New Haven and Newark with Rashid while Lestat put Sam through the paces of sound checks enjoyable.  He hadn’t even bothered to make any kills like most new vampires would, charming half a dozen victims’ wrists to his lips for little drinks in the time it had taken Gabrielle to court three.  So much of Rashid’s mind remains with Sam, and it’s obvious that’s the case given how unerringly he always finds Sam in the wings on their return to the venue, pulls him close, and kisses Sam’s helmet for luck.

Gabrielle is idly pretending not to watch the two of them make out on the sofa in Sam’s dressing room before Lestat takes the stage in Philadelphia when Daniel swaggers in with Armand, pretty in vintage Vivienne Westwood, on his arm.  Daniel stands there staring for a few seconds and then makes a questioning gesture at Gabrielle.  She looks up from her phone and shrugs, implying he’s nuts for objecting to sharing space with Rashid while he’s reducing his companion to a wreck with kissing skills that don’t rely even fractionally on using his fangs.

Armand looks both impatient and appalled.   He clears his throat, folding his bangled arms across his chest, tapping his elbows with glittering, ringed fingers.  “This is no way to run a company, Sam,” Armand chides, but the slight, almost fond twist of his lips gives him away.

“Not my circus,” Sam mumbles against Rashid’s mouth, refusing to spare a glance at Armand.  He tucks his head beneath Rashid’s chin, breathing hard as he nuzzles the hollow of Rashid’s throat.  “Not yours, either, so…fuck off.”  Sam kisses there, drawing a hum from Rashid.

Gabrielle sets her phone face-down on the arm of the chair, glancing expectantly from Rashid to Armand, and then back to Rashid again, since he’s the one making eye contact where Sam has adamantly refused to do so.  He’s just patiently running his fingers through Sam’s tousled hair, the faintest trace of a flush on his cheeks.  He’s shielding Sam, so pale he’s turned pink, from any obvious ridicule that might come his way.  Gabrielle has to marvel at how swiftly each one of them will fangs-out threaten to protect the other if he feels the situation calls for it.

“Hot,” Daniel remarks awkwardly, breaking the silence that’s fallen.  “This kind of thing is just…de rigueur now, I guess?  Louis isn’t here to make my undeath hell by fawning on Lestat while he’s the one sitting across from me, so you two are picking up the slack?”

“Something like that,” Rashid agrees, bumping his nose against Sam’s temple as Sam lifts his head to finally cast a surly glance on Daniel and Armand in turn before shifting off Rashid’s lap.  “At least you’re not weird about it,” he says to Gabrielle.  “Doesn’t cost you, right?”

Armand rolls his eyes, signaling that he’s not going to buy anything Gabrielle is about to say.  Credit where credit’s due: he cuts the figure of an elegant, devoted courtesan more gracefully than Gabrielle ever had in life.  If Daniel has succeeded in bringing the minx to heel, it’ll take half a millennium of trouble off everyone’s hands.  The journalist will have proved himself useful a second time over; here’s hoping it sticks.

“Oh, absolutely,” Gabrielle agrees sweetly, and then gives Sam a reassuring look.  I’ve been trolling the shit out of your vicious little den mother since before you were born, let alone turned, she says in his mind, and that prompts a mischievous gleam in Sam’s arresting yellowish gray eyes.  Not your maître anymore, non?  Leave this to me.  “They’ve needed the peace and quiet,” she tells Armand.  “Darling boys, both of them.”

That makes Daniel’s eye twitch; his irises flicker condescendingly.  “Forgive me if I point out why your saying that is…less than reassuring.”

Armand bursts out laughing, a peal of morbid delight.  “Oh, love, that’s absolutely—” he snorts, and Gabrielle’s stomach sinks “—awful.”

Gabrielle watches Sam and Rashid.  The expressions that pass between them suggest a silent exchange so rapid and decisive that Gabrielle feels annoyed at herself for trying to provide a buffer.  Sam finally glances at her with apologetic eyes, tilting his head toward the door.

Thanks for trying, truly, Sam says, but they’re untouchable now that they have each other back.  You don’t know how deep the rabbit hole goes because you never saw the Night Island file.  Fareed left a cooler on the bus.  Come out with us, and we’ll paint a picture?

Can’t promise you won’t want to gouge out your eyes by the time we’re done, Rashid says ruefully, getting to his feet.  He drags Sam along by the hand, beckoning Gabrielle with a tilt of his head.  These two will be waiting to ambush Lestat before and after he takes the stage.

Go ahead, Gabrielle replies, shooing them as she gets to her feet.  I’ll be along shortly. She waits until Sam and Rashid are gone to approach Daniel and Armand, who actually stop laughing as she draws up to her full height in front of them.  “Not a single word of welcome for him?”

Daniel blinks at her, and then pales in panic.  “Oh, you mean about Rashid?  Yeah, uh.  Shit.”

Armand rubs beneath his nose, haughtily lifting his chin.  “It’s not as if it comes as any shock.”

Gabrielle shakes her head.  “Irredeemable as ever,” she says contemptuously, pushing past him.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!” Daniel shouts after her.  “Or, no, in your case, it’s more like, the seeds don’t fall far from the—”

“Daniel, it’s not worth being clever.  She’ll drain you.”

“Who fuckin’ cares?  If she does, then you’ll drain her.”

“I most assuredly will not.  You’ll have deserved it.”

“Aw, princess.  Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

Gabrielle tunes out their bickering as she flees to the tour bus.  She can’t see Sam and Rashid as she yanks the door open with a burst of psychic energy, mounts the stairs, and slams it behind her.  They’re in the coffin half-undressed, but not indecent, blood bags in hand.  Sam looks loose-limbed like Rashid’s already gotten him off as an apology for winding him up.  Gabrielle collapses in the row of seats across from them.

Sam chucks a blood bag at her.  “So, we’re not the worst?”

“No,” Gabrielle agrees, sinking her fangs in the plastic.

“You’re of the opinion Armand’s always had that title?”

“I’m frankly amazed you don’t seem to hold that opinion.”

“We had each other’s backs more often than you’d think.”

Rashid squeezes Sam’s hip just below the waistband of his boxers; Gabrielle’ admits to being a touch envious of the easy contact, of the way Sam stretches against Rashid’s side as his tee rides up.  “Neither of us would be here if Armand had a penchant for vengeance,” he points out.

“Oh, let me tell you something about Armand and vengeance,” Gabrielle mutters.

“Talamasca files,” Sam reminds her, waving his hand.  “No surprises, I’m afraid.”

“You were going to fill me in on the Florida affair?” Gabrielle asks, anticipatory.

Rashid glances at Sam, gets a nod while Sam’s eating, and sighs.  “To the letter.”

Yes, Gabrielle decides: per Petronia’s request, she’ll guard these darling boys with her life.

Chapter 7: Same Old

Sam has played high profile venues before, but several of the most staggering have been in the past week of touring alone.  Tonight, they’ve just wrapped a show at the Anthem in Washington, D.C., and Sam feels every bit as awkward in this ultra-modern VIP lounge as he’d once felt on theater troupe outings.  With Rashid and Gabrielle voluntarily having taken point on escorting a dozen rowdy revelers out of the space, Sam has crammed himself as far into one corner of the black leather sofa as possible with his half-drunk cocktail clasped in both hands.

“Gauche,” Armand remarks, leaning over the back of the sofa.  He taps the rim of Sam’s glass with the tips of his nails.  “You smuggled bottles of Bonal Gentiane-Quina and Lillet in here and donated them to the bar, all for the sake of clutching this security blanket?”

“Don’t know how else I was going to get a proper 1789,” Sam protests.  There’s too much ice, but at least the bartender hasn’t fucked the balance of the two more obscure ingredients with the top-shelf whiskey the venue keeps on hand.  There’s no orange peel in it, but Sam will make do.  When Armand doesn’t budge, he shoves the glass in Armand’s face.  “Either have a sip, or go ask the bartender to make you one.”

Armand wrinkles his nose like he means to refuse.  However, after a quick glance from side to side, he takes the glass, gulps some of it down, and then hands it back.  “Don’t tell anyone I said this, but you always had the best taste in drinks.”

“Who’s left to tell?” Sam asks irritably.  He wants to throw the rest of the drink in Armand’s face for being such a petty old queen, but Daniel is looking in their direction from where he and Lestat have just done the equivalent of several lines of coke directly from a hapless fan’s neck.  “Ah,” Sam sighs, scowling at Lestat over the rim of his glass.  “He’s an enabler, that one.  Can’t be good for Daniel.  How can you stand it?”

Armand shrugs, drawing up to his full height as he gives his companion an adoring little wave.  “We’ve set a limit,” he explains.  “Daniel isn’t allowed to have much more than what you’ve already seen.  And if he goes over that limit, then I’ve threatened to make him watch me kiss you.”

Sam turns and stares up at Armand.  “Contingent on my agreeing to such a thing, which I absolutely fuckin’ don’t.”  And then he glances at Daniel, considering for a second.  “Just for the sake of argument, let’s say I did.  Even if that were the case, good luck getting Rashid onboard.”

“For the sake of making Daniel suffer,” Armand replies, “I think you’d be amazed at the scores on which you might gain Rashid’s consent.”

“I’m still not going to fuck you.”

“I never asked you to fuck me.”

“Maybe not directly, you didn’t.”

“Telling you that I thought you were adorable wasn’t coercion, Sam.”

“Thought, past tense.  Should I be relieved you don’t think that now?”

“No, I still think that you are.”

“Even after I’ve played Judas?”

“Even after you’ve done it twice.”

“Hey, I had help the second time.”

“Help every bit as adorable, alas.”

“Rashid’s not going to fuck you, either.”

“How do you know?  I’ve never asked.”

Sam knocks back the rest of his drink.  “I’m too sober for this conversation.  If you want me plastered in a hurry, then I’ll need to be getting it from the vein like those two have been doing with the…well.”  Sam swallows as two young women approach him, one in a scandalously short tube dress and the other in a crop top paired with tight jeans.  He fucking hates this; flirting with the ladies is simply not his wheelhouse.

Armand sets a hand on the back of Sam’s neck and squeezes.  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says sweetly, making God-only-knows what kind of face at the girls over the top of Sam’s head.  “If it’s the opening act you’re after, look no further.”

“I fuckin’ hate you!” Sam shouts after Armand, and then blinks at the young women, petrified.  “Hi?”

“Nobody mentioned you’re Irish,” the brunette says, bubbly and more than slightly drunk.  “Your accent’s cute.”

Wish I could say the same of your pickup lines, Sam thinks acidly.  “Paris and London feel more like home than anywhere else.”

The blonde looks sober—sizing him up like she’s solving a puzzle.  “That guy with Lestat said we should talk to you.”

“Sure as hell bet he did,” Sam replies, glaring at Daniel through the gap between the girls’ shoulders.  “About what?”

The brunette frowns, her expression mirroring the blonde’s a little more closely now.  “Theater,” she says after a beat.

Sam clamps his mouth shut, abruptly so angry that his fangs emerge and pierce the back of his lower lip.  Armand had gotten him far enough out of sorts that he hadn’t noticed a copy of Interview peeking out of the blonde’s bag.  Daniel’s a nasty piece of work when he holds a grudge, and he hasn’t quite forgiven Sam for bringing Gabrielle up to speed on his and Armand’s past in Miami.  Fine, so they’re playing dirty?

Before Sam can bare his bloody fangs, though, familiar arms catch him around the shoulders.  He closes his eyes and presses his face against the side of Rashid’s as Rashid bends over the back of the sofa.  Help, he thinks.  I’m about to kill them or Daniel, whichever comes first.

“There you are, love,” Rashid murmurs, brushing a kiss against Sam’s temple.  “This isn’t the writer you’re looking for,” he tells the ladies, hugging Sam tighter, always happy to make a show of it.  “He’s far better at his job than the hack in your bag.”

“Jesus Christ,” the blonde says, her eyes darting belatedly after Armand.  “Fuck me, just…wait a minute.  Wait.”

The brunette watches as her friend strides off in Armand’s direction.  “I think she’s taking this too seriously.”

“You’re not taking this seriously enough,” Rashid says.  “A word of professional advice?  Get your friend and leave.”

“Why are y’all so hot,” the brunette laments as she stomps off, “but so gay?  For fuck’s sake, couldn’t just one be…”

“Sam,” Rashid whispers, rushing around to his side of the sofa.  He settles next to Sam, peels the cocktail glass out of Sam’s clammy hand, sets it aside on the midcentury coffee table, and then pulls Sam tight against his chest.  “Shhh, it’s—”

“The blonde was this close to having it out with me,” Sam gasps against Rashid’s neck.  “Voluntarily ran my mouth about Paris, all because maître and I had been reminiscing, without realizing Daniel had sent ’em over here to talk to me about theater.  You know who—”

“I’ll have a word with Daniel,” Rashid whispers, hushing Sam gently.  “He can’t keep doing this, pushing the nonfiction line so hard when it’s…”  He kisses Sam’s closed eyes.  “Forget about the Order.  It’s not work anymore.  It’s our lives.”

Sam shivers, clinging as Rashid pulls him into his lap.  They’re drawing stares at this point, but Rashid giving zero fucks goes a long way to helping Sam toss his last few over the back of the sofa.  Every fanatical reader of Daniel’s who thinks they know better than I do what happened with Santiago and that bloody script will eventually force me into writing a rebuttal, which is the last thing I want—

Rashid kisses Sam, cupping his cheek, stroking along Sam’s jaw until he’s still.  “Mera dil,” he murmurs.  “Sweet thing.”  I love you so much, he continues directly in Sam’s mind.  Remember what I told you about how your past figures into that?

“Doesn’t matter,” Sam sniffs.  “Because of it, not in spite of it?”

Rashid nods.  “You were put in an impossible situation.”

“Love you so,” Sam manages, clinging to Rashid.  Want you.

“Poor thing’s turning into a pumpkin already?” Gabrielle asks, taking her turn to lean over the back of the sofa.  “Sam…”

“Tough crowd,” Rashid offers, and then thinks better of it.  “Actually, if you want to know the truth?  Daniel was an arse.” 

“Yeah, I’ll buy that.”  Gabrielle reluctantly nudges against Sam’s thoughts, startled when he grants her access.  “The gremlin, too?”

“You don’t have to kiss him to get back at Daniel,” Rashid sighs, running his fingers through Sam’s hair.  “Put it out of your mind.”

Sam wants Rashid to take him to coffin.  He wants to come on Rashid’s attentive fingers, he wants Rashid’s cock in his mouth, he wants to fall asleep tangled naked with Rashid in the safe, close darkness; he wants, he wants, he wants…

“I’ll wrangle the dipshits.  You deal with him,” Gabrielle says to Rashid.  “We’re not on the bus come dawn.  I’ll text the hotel address.”

“How about a bed?” Rashid asks once Gabrielle has stalked off to find whichever of the other three will be the first to face her wrath.

Sam nods into the curve of Rashid’s neck.  He’s tired, he misses home, and he’s subjecting Rashid to fledglinghood on the road. “Please.”

“I’m here because I want to be, got it?”

“I know.  Shite arrangements, though.”

“You in my coffin, in my bed? Never.”

“That’s just same old, same old, darlin’.”

“I’m a creature of habit like you, Sam.”

“No surprises.  I couldn’t be happier.”

Chapter 8: Down Time

In the stretch of cities between Washington, D.C., and New Orleans, there are a sequence of incidents on the road in which Rashid is increasingly grateful that Gabrielle has decided to look out for him and Sam.  Armand has likewise been useful to have on hand, but he’s been so focused on a combination of pre-emptive destruction of their would-be assailants and protecting Daniel that Sam’s stress levels have hit the tour bus roof.

In Durham and Charlotte, Sam and Gabrielle do most of the killing when rogue vampires get too close—but in Charleston, Rashid experiences a near miss when Sam fails to track a stealthy assailant that Lestat catches at the last second.  Sam has enough of a guilt-ridden breakdown that Rashid finds sufficient wherewithal to to learn the Fire Gift and take point on a lot of the torching alongside Gabrielle in Savannah and Marietta.

There are two nights’ worth of down-time built into New Orleans before the final show.  This is partly because Lestat hasn’t been back in a while and partly because Louis has been tailing them, doing some violent cleanup of his own, and Lestat has therefore decided to reconnect.  As soon as they roll into town, just after dark, Armand and Daniel vanish.  Gabrielle tells Rashid to keep Sam in the hotel at all costs and vanishes, too.

Rashid understands all too quickly what that might mean.  Once he’s checked them in and gotten their keys, he leads Sam into the elevator and hits the button for the rooftop bar.  Sam looks distractingly lovely tonight, though, dressed in a 1940s herringbone three-piece that does anything but clash with his 1990s Doc Martens and artfully messy modern hair.  Rashid kisses Sam to distract himself from how underdressed he feels.

Sam blinks hazily at him as the elevator creaks to a halt.  The door swishes open, revealing the rooftop bar to be decently deserted.  “Did Gabrielle advise getting me drunk and taking advantage while they’re all off on a killing spree?” Sam pouts, hanging on Rashid’s neck.

Rashid hustles Sam into the cool, but humid night air, blinking at the stunning view of the city that stretches out in every direction below.  The bar is all concrete, copper, and glass, the bare-bones facsimile of an old-fashioned artist’s loft.  “She told me to keep you safe.”

“Mustn’t disobey Mother, then,” Sam sighs with a touch of sarcasm, running one absent hand through his hair as he approaches a cocktail menu that someone’s left on the corner of the bar while he drags Rashid along with the other.  “There’s Lillet in the High Violet!” he says, pleased, scanning the ingredients list of several cocktails.  “That’ll do me.  I shudder to think which one of these might be your poison, though, darlin’.”

Rashid doesn’t spend much time reading the list.  He uses the menu to wave down the bartender.  “A High Violet and a Pimm-Possible, please.”

“That’s absolutely disgusting,” Sam informs Rashid cheerfully while the bartender takes the menu off Rashid’s hands and gets to work.

Rashid catches Sam around the waist, tucking a kiss behind Sam’s ear.  In moments like this, he almost forgets that they haven’t left their relatively quiet life on the East Coast behind.  “It won’t taste like much anyway,” he murmurs.  “I’m mostly nostalgic for the way it smells.”

“You’re a strange one.  The smell of it—how would you describe that?”

“Herbal like gin, but add fruit cordial.  Why do you like Lillet so much?”

“Still tastes like citrus and honey if I concentrate enough,” Sam insists.

“Sweet thing,” Rashid says in his ear.  “Maybe I’ll taste it in you later.”

“Christ,” Sam hisses, squeezing Rashid’s hands at his belly.  “Not here.”

Two hours and a few arguments over several cocktails’ flavors later, they’re still standing at the corner of the bar with a handful of glasses at various stages of finished between them.  Rashid hears the others in the elevator before Sam does, one particular voice setting him on edge.

“Sam,” Rashid says urgently, ushering him away from the bar.  “Come here, love,” he coaxes, pulling him in, keeping him close.  “Company.”

Louis is fucking staring at them with Lestat only a few steps behind him.  Rashid isn’t sure where Gabrielle, Armand, and Daniel have gone.

“Louis didn’t believe me,” Lestat explains, gesturing apologetically, “so—”

“Which part didn’t he believe?” Rashid asks, pointing to his own transformed eyes before emphasizing the protective hold he has on Sam’s waist.

“So, you used us as an excuse to get him here,” Sam deadpans bitterly. “Come see the latest exhibits in your freak show, past and present?”

“How long have you two been…?”  Louis trails off when he realizes he’s the last person in the bar to have figured out the Sam piece of Dubai.  “Know what?  Never mind.  Less I know, the better.  Your new boss here has just finished talking me down from wanting to kill you.”

Rashid lets his fangs drop, because absolutely fuck that.  “That’s inadvisable,” he warns, instinctively putting himself between Sam and Louis.

Louis doesn’t quite laugh.  He looks impressed that somebody who’s been a vampire for barely a month is so willing to defend someone who’s been a vampire for ninety years against somebody who’s been one for right under a hundred and twenty.  But there’s the matter of Rashid’s and Sam’s ancient maker.  Lestat must’ve explained that.  They’re just cases like Armand that haven’t hit half a millennium yet.

“You quit the Talamasca?” Louis asks, his tone mild, switching tactics.

“Yes,” Rashid says guardedly.  “We’d been pulling away since Dubai.”

“And Lestat found you…where?” Louis asks, addressing Sam this time.

“Don’t fuckin’ go there with the joke,” Sam snarls with abrupt, startling venom.  “I hated it when you’d do it back then.  I still hate it now.”

“Boston’s field office had openings,” Rashid says.  “It’s under the jurisdiction of New York’s motherhouse.  Now?  We’re no one’s jurisdiction.”

“How did Raglan take it?” Louis asks, his expression unreadable as Rashid pulls Sam even more fully into his arms.  “That’s got to be…tricky.”

“Not well,” Sam mumbles against Rashid’s shoulder.  He finally turns to look Louis in the eyes, his cheek pressed to the spot he’d just kissed.

“Is this shocking?” Rashid asks Louis, tucking Sam’s hair behind his ear.  “Or is it that I was mortal during much of the time I’ve been with him?”

“It’s that you’re with him, full stop,” Armand interrupts.  “Sam, are you—”  He gives Rashid a deferential glance as he sets a hand against Sam’s back just above where Rashid’s arms are wrapped around him, and then withdraws his touch.  “Louis, let it go,” Armand says, a tired warning.  “You know there’s far more to the story than you’re willing to accept.  If you’re not going to kill me, then you have no business—”

“Outrageous, that there’s still three of you from the company left after all that trouble I took,” Louis says, not without humor, looking from Armand to Sam to Lestat.  “And that two of you don’t hesitate to close ranks and defend the one who was there under false pretenses.”

“It’s repertory theater,” Lestat says acidly.  “Some bonds transcend treachery.”

Rashid kisses the top of Sam’s head when Sam muffles sardonic laughter against his neck.  Leave it to this lot to ruin a nice night.  Are you all right, love? he asks in Sam’s mind, kissing his temple now, and then his cheekbone.  What can I do?

Sam turns his face up for a kiss on the lips, so Rashid indulges him.  I’d say let’s find Gabrielle and get trashed, but…it’s hot when you stand up for me like that.   He sucks on Rashid’s lower lip with a pleased hum.  Lestat’s paying for our suite.  Maybe we should use it.

“Why so put-out, Louis?” Daniel asks, finally catching up.  “Rashid PDA for purposes of making others uncomfortable is only okay when you do it?”

“Touché, Daniel,” Louis replies testily.  “You can stop while you’re ahead.”

“Didn’t even use the real deal when you did it,” Daniel continues, disdainful.

“Are you trying to get yourself kicked out of bed come dawn?” Armand asks.

Rashid bursts into laughter against Sam’s mouth, hitching Sam up in his arms.  The fact that they’re comparably strong now has leveled the playing field, not that it’s ever stopped Rashid from being the one to do this given Sam’s a fraction shorter and slighter than he is.

“You see what I put up with,” Lestat says.  “The reckless, youthful idealism of those who’ve been together scarcely more than a decade.”

“You must be getting it from these two just as bad?” Louis asks, waving his hand at Daniel and Armand.  “That’s the real horror story.”

Gabrielle makes a cut-across-the-throat gesture and points toward the door, so Rashid takes that as a sign some kind of verbal altercation is imminent.  He carries Sam to the elevator, breathless with laughter by the time they reach their own floor.  Sam has to fish the key out of Rashid’s back pocket so they can get into their suite without Rashid putting Sam down.  Rashid makes sure the door slams soundly behind them.

“Classy,” Sam huffs when Rashid drops him on the bed in an ungainly sprawl.

“I didn’t think you cared,” Rashid teases, pulling Sam’s boots off for him.

“I don’t,” Sam replies, watching Rashid rid himself of his dress shoes next.

“Is it about my image?” Rashid asks, crawling onto the bed, looming over him.

Sam shrugs against the duvet, hooking his fingers through Rashid’s belt loops.  “Louis always thought highly of you even when he was being rude,” he says, unfastening Rashid’s jeans with a quiet sigh.  “Probably wrecked that privilege for you, haven’t I?”

Rashid frowns in concern, something about the wistful undertone in Sam’s voice not sitting right with him.  He shimmies out of his jeans, removes his button-down shirt, and then helps Sam out of his suit.  Rashid gets them settled front to front under the covers after that, their legs tangled—still in undershirts and boxers, their sock-covered feet teasing at each other’s ankles.  It’s a fine line between comfort and seduction.

“Why do you say that, Sam?” Rashid whispers, tracing Sam’s lower lip with his thumb.  “Is it what happened eighty years ago—or is it more?”

“It’s less than that, actually,” Sam sighs, licking the pad of Rashid’s thumb on its next pass.  “You picked up on it when you diffused Louis’s incoming Boston joke.  Louis’s time and place?  I’m Irish gutter trash.  He greeted me with top o’ the morning around the theater nine times out of ten.  Never said a word to me otherwise resembling conversation.  Would it have been so hard to say bonsoir like he did with most everyone else?”

Rashid strokes Sam’s cheek, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.  “I’ll never fully understand any of this by virtue of my temporal position,” he says softly.  “I know that.  But I haven’t been without my own struggles, either, and…neither has Louis, and…”  He searches for words.  “There’s nothing useful I can say here, Sam, except that I’m sorry you ever felt like that because of something he said.  Sorry that you still do.”

“Shouldn’t complain.  I deserve it.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.  You do not.”

Rashid, I didn’t try to stop—”

“The Order tied your hands.”

Sam nuzzles Rashid’s neck, shivering as Rashid gathers him close.  “How can you…?”

Rashid runs a hand up the back of Sam’s shirt.  “You accepted my faults, isn’t that so?”

“Your faults look cute in comparison.”

“I’m looking at you, not your faults.”

“Again with the fuckin’ flattery.  God forbid I should request criticism.”

“I don’t have a sane answer for why I love you.  Why do you love me?”

Sam sniffles and clings tighter to Rashid.  “You’re clever.  Gorgeous.  Fearless.  Always treated me like a person in spite of the fangs.  Didn’t mind acquiring them yourself.  Never once gave credence to the note in my file that says I’m distractible and need constant supervision.”

“You frequently get overwhelmed,” Rashid replies, “and you find ways to cope.  Eternity’s not easy when your mind’s arguably intact, let alone…”

“Let alone when it’s like mine on the shallow end and Armand’s on the deep end?” Sam asks.  “You can say it.  Lestat almost said it in Worcester.”

“You’re so talented,” Rashid whispers.  “Handsome.  Stubborn.  Look at me like you can’t believe I’m real. I hope I never disappoint you.”

“Nothing you do could ever—”  Sam tugs at Rashid’s waistband before shoving his own boxers down clumsily.  “Off,” he breathes, and then swallows a moan as soon as Rashid complies and rolls him onto his back.  “Oh, you’re…”  Sam squirms feverishly under him.  “Darlin’…”

“Mmm,” Rashid agrees.  “Love you for this, too,” he whispers in Sam’s ear.  Rashid sinks his fangs at Sam’s clavicle, deep enough to scrape bone.

Sam makes a broken, helpless noise and snaps his head to one side.  He gets off like an earthquake when he’s pinned like this; Rashid could watch his pretty face lost in the dismayed ecstasy of it all night.  Sam rakes his nails over Rashid’s shoulder blades, incoherent.

Rashid kisses him.  “More?”

Sam gasps shakily and nods.

Rashid adores working Sam open when he’s in this particular state.  He’s already so pliant that it’s an exercise in finger-fucking him until he thrashes and sobs, at which point Rashid relents and gives Sam his cock an achingly slow inch at a time.  He’s closer than he’d like, too.

“Here,” Sam says, flipping Rashid over.  He nearly disconnects them in the process, cursing until he gets himself seated on Rashid’s cock again.  

Rashid grasps Sam’s hips, squeezing gently as he exhales on a quiet moan.  Sam’s hands braced on his shoulders, Sam’s weight on him, Sam’s heat around him—it’s all heaven.  “Ah,” he gasps as Sam starts to move, his fingernails slicing into Sam’s skin with the sway of Sam’s hips.

“You like the way I move onstage?” Sam asks, his eyes falling shut as he tilts his head back.  “And when it’s just us?” he pants, picking up the pace.

Rashid nods feverishly up at Sam.  He draws Sam’s hands to his mouth, kissing the backs, his knuckles, and his palms.  “Yes, love.  Just like now.”

Sam shifts his hips less steadily by the second, taut half-circles in either direction before bending low over Rashid to kiss the breath out of him.  So noble, darlin’, he says in Rashid’s mind, cradling Rashid’s face in both shaking hands.  You don’t need to hold out on me.

Rashid holds Sam still and doesn’t stop kissing him while he comes—although he does bite through Sam’s lip with the sheer intensity when he realizes Sam’s coming again, too, fangs out before he can help it.  He licks the blood away, murmuring apologies as soon as he can think.

Sam slumps on top of him, burying his face in Rashid’s neck with a happy wiggle.  He’s cuter than he has any right to be.  “Don’t be sorry,” Sam mumbles, sinking his fangs just enough to briefly sting and then lick the droplets away as the wounds heal.  “Love you so.”

Rashid grins up at Sam’s endearingly blotchy face.  “Same.  Want to go back?”

Sam raises his eyebrows.  “Why? So you can show off what you’ve done to me?”

Rashid tries to fix Sam’s hair.  “I’ll be just as happy if we stay here until morning.”

Sam gazes bashfully from beneath his lashes.  “Gloating might prove we’re the worst.”

“I wouldn’t half mind stealing that title from the current holders,” Rashid agrees fondly.

Chapter 9: Harm’s Way

Daniel realizes that ducking into the hallway instead of into the master bedroom of Lestat’s suite to take the documentary producer’s call would’ve been the smart thing to do.  The party is still so loud that he ends up hunkering in the closet to shield the guy’s ears from what’s going on in the main rooms of the suite.  As soon as Daniel hangs up and sets his hand on the door to push it back open, he freezes at the sound of the bedroom doors opening and slamming shut.  He peers out through the slats—unsurprised when he sees the couple that’s stumbled in, collapsed on the settee, and swaddled the throw blanket around themselves even as they take just enough clothing apart to get their hands on each other.

“Fuckin’ tease,” Sam gasps between frantic kisses, squirming restlessly in Rashid’s lap.  “Oh,” he breathes tremulously.  “Oh, I’m—”

“What do you want?” Rashid asks, his voice low and earnest, stilling his hand beneath Sam’s untucked shirt.  “I’ll keep doing this if—”

“You’d better,” Sam pouts, pushing his hips into Rashid’s touch.  “Please.”

Well, great.  Daniel’s not going to feel guilty about a front row seat to the same show Lestat had seen on the bus.  It’s not his fault that these two never check to see if anyone’s in the room before they fool around.  Daniel gets it.  Being immortal and in love’s a hell of a drug.

They kiss while Rashid finishes unfastening Sam’s bottom layers under the blanket.  That works Sam up more effectively than taking his pants off.  Daniel has to admit that the art of the tease is alive and well with these two.  Sam trembles, trying not to grind in Rashid’s lap.

“Sam,” Rashid whispers. He finally starts to move his hand in a regular rhythm beneath the blanket, achingly gentle—his other hand sliding to press against the small of Sam’s back, coaxing him to fuck his fist.  “Shhh.  Nobody’s really listening to us, but…can you be good?”

Sam comes in less than a minute, which is understandable given how Rashid’s been teasing him all evening with touches that toe the line between decent and risqué.  The sounds he’s muffling against Rashid’s neck hit Daniel like punches to the gut; the way Rashid cradles him that much closer as his body shakes, kisses his cheek and his temple, makes Daniel feel dizzy.  Sam clings to Rashid’s shoulders, overwhelmed.

“Are you all right?” Rashid murmurs, hugging Sam tightly.  “How’d that feel?”

Sam exhales, his nose buried in Rashid’s collar.  “Close as it gets to heaven.”

Rashid kisses Sam’s forehead.  “You deserve that as often as I can give it.”

“You spoil me,” Sam sighs, cupping Rashid’s jaw.  “Whatever I want, whenever I want it indeed.” He fumbles between them, unzipping Rashid’s fly; Rashid makes a desperate noise into the kiss.  “Poor darlin’,” Sam mumbles, nipping Rashid’s lower lip, “about to burst, aren’t you?”

“Sam, wait—”

“Shhh, love.”

Daniel’s impressed that Sam manages to twist out of Rashid’s lap and situate himself on the floor in time.  He gets Rashid’s legs over his shoulders and dick down his throat with practiced ease, and lucky, lucky Rashid’s moaning like he’s dying inside a minute because apparently Sam Barclay would’ve taken the title of coven cock-sucking champion any goddamn day if he’d been fucking the company like it was a competition.  Daniel knows that a combination of Sam’s Talamasca work and innate pickiness about partners had prevented that from being the case.

Speaking of Rashid, everything about the current situation has Daniel sincerely regretting that he hadn’t made a concentrated effort to tap that while he was in Dubai.  The guy’s gorgeous, like—not Armand levels of gorgeous, nobody is, but pretty close.  He’s got his head thrown back against the settee’s plush backing, and he’s gasping and praising Sam like there’s no other concept of God he’s ever known.  Daniel doesn’t speak Punjabi, but he knows that’s what he’s hearing.  And there’s Sam’s name every few words, and some repetitions in English—sweet thing, pretty thing, look at you, so good for me, so precious—that make Sam moan and briefly stop what he’s doing to kiss Rashid’s belly, hips, and insides of his thighs.  It’s simultaneously adorable and filthy; Daniel’s breaking a sweat thinking about possibilities for later with Armand.

Sam gets Rashid to fuck his face in earnest, but that only lasts about thirty seconds because Rashid can’t hold out.  Daniel shouldn’t tell Armand that he’s watched Sam make Rashid forget not just his own name, but that he exists on this plane.  Sam lets Rashid’s cock slip out of his mouth, blood running down his chin, and leans forward to press a kiss over Rashid’s heart before sliding his arms around Rashid’s waist.

“Ah, that was,” Rashid manages, burying his face in Sam’s hair.  “What’s…”  He laughs, exhausted.  “What’s gotten into you?”

Sam lifts his chin, pressing his forehead against Rashid’s as he settles in for a cuddle.  “I’m a lazy-arse pillow princess.  I owed you.”

“Hush, Sam.  You didn’t.”

“Oh, what a gentleman—”

Daniel watches Sam shift back into Rashid’s lap.  They trade lazy, disheveled kisses for a while and then curl up under the blanket.  He sneaks out once they’ve fallen asleep in a clingy, sated tangle.  Jesus, Lestat’s not lying.  They’re the last kind of lovesick idiots anyone needs around in a conflict like this.  Maybe so are he and Armand, but there’s a difference.  If Daniel goes up in flames during one of these skirmishes, Armand will probably endure.  He’s had practice.  Sam, though?  There’s no word for the kind of grief they’ll be looking at if Rashid’s a casualty.

Daniel makes his way back to the main room of the suite, waving his hand in front of his face to dispel the weed and cigarette smoke.  Louis and Lestat are all but fucking nasty on the sofa, which—cool, nobody cares, least of all Daniel.  Even Sam and Rashid could’ve stayed out here and done their thing, and they would’ve been in better shape than trying to get away from the crowd.  It’s a party on the eve of the final show.  Anyway, Daniel is trying to find someone else, and it’s fortunate that he finds Armand and Gabrielle speaking to the individual in question.

“Fareed,” Daniel says, catching Armand around the waist, pulling him into his arms to make room for himself.  “Just the vampire I’d like to see.”

Fareed pauses mid-sentence, looks away from Gabrielle, and raises his eyebrows at Daniel.  “You…would?  Like to see me, really?  Why?”

“Daniel, what’s the matter?” Armand murmurs in Daniel’s ear under the guise of kissing and licking his earlobe.  “Did the call go badly?”

Daniel shivers at the sensation.  “Uh.  Sorry, where was I?  Yeah, so—this husband of yours that I’ve heard so much about.  Where is he?”

“You mean his companion?” Gabrielle supplies helpfully.  “Seth?”

“That guy,” Daniel agrees.  “Quite the recluse.  You mentioned that the two of you have been following the entourage in that fancy-ass Winnebago?”

Fareed shrugs.  “He’s not much for parties.  What about him?”

“Where do you guys normally live when you’re Stateside?” Daniel asks.  “Seems like a…deserty kind of thing to have.  You guys must miss Dubai.”

“What are you doing?” Armand asks.  “They’re off the record.”

“We’re most at home in that environment,” Fareed agrees cautiously.  “Pojoaque, New Mexico.  Just north of Santa Fé.  Why?”

“Have you found it safe there?” Daniel asks pointedly. “If so, how safe?”

Fareed looks wary.  “It’s an easy place to keep to ourselves.  Seth is…old enough that the sun cannot harm him.  Again, why?”

“Great,” Daniel says, relieved.  “Take the honeymooners and get out of here.”

“Sam and Rashid?” Gabrielle asks, affronted.  “I have them under control.”

“No, you do not!” Daniel snaps.  “Rashid almost died a couple cities back.”

“Danger is getting closer by the night,” Armand says.  “If only I could see—”

“Seth is not too keen to be around when it arrives,” Fareed interjects.  “Fine.”

“Fine…what?” Gabrielle echoes, startled.

“We’ll take the fledglings,” Fareed replies.

“Sam is hardly a fledgling,” Armand says.

“True, I’m much closer to fledglinghood than he is,” Fareed allows, “but stress reduces him to a startlingly fragile emotional state.”

“That’s…”  Armand folds his arms across his chest, his body language irked, so Daniel pulls him in closer.  “You know that has more to do with how his mind works, irrespective of mortality or immortality.”  He clears his throat.  “I’m not that different.  It’s one reason we always got on.”

“My son’s commentary in Worcester a couple of weeks ago left something to be desired,” Gabrielle clarifies when Fareed looks puzzled.

Fareed chooses his next words with a hint of sarcasm.  “I’ll take the fledgling and his neurodivergent companion.  Are you satisfied?”

“Hell, I promised Petronia that I’d…” Gabrielle digs the heels of her hands into her eyes, rubbing them.  “Sorry to gate-crash, but I’m coming, too.”

Daniel can’t believe Fareed looks relieved to hear that, but at least he can hustle Armand out of the room if Fareed and Gabrielle are talking exit strategy.  Fareed wants to leave right after Sam opens tomorrow night, no sticking around for Lestat’s performance.  Gabrielle agrees.

Armand is ominously quiet as Daniel tightens his arm around him and maneuvers him through the crowd to the door of the suite.  Armand doesn’t turn to Daniel and suck in his breath to speak until they’re in the elevator, his marigold eyes pensive, round, and startlingly lost.

“I’m proud of you,” Armand admits, fixing the lapels of Daniel’s leather jacket.

“For ordering Fareed around like that?” Daniel replies.  “Not my best moment.”

“For getting two vampires who are dear to me out of harm’s way,” Armand replies.

“I did it because they’re so dear to each other,” Daniel sighs, taking Armand’s face in his hands.  “Know how beautiful you are tonight?”

Armand shakes his head almost imperceptibly, breaking into a smile.  “All I know is the way that you look at me, beloved.  It’s enough.”

“Nah,” Daniel insists, kissing him softly.  “It’ll never be enough just to give you lovesick looks.  I’ve gotta make sure I’m telling you.”

“What’s gotten into you?” Armand whispers fondly, kissing him back.

“Rashid tells Sam every other breath,” Daniel says.  “Can’t let him win.”

“It’s not a competition,” Armand sighs as the elevator door opens.

“Anything’s a competition if you try hard enough,” Daniel says.

Armand smirks.  “Have you told Rashid that you’re out to steal his title?”

“Try telling those two anything when they have each other distracted.”

“They won’t even be around to participate.  Just forget about it.”

“Like hell am I going to let them annoy Lestat more than we do.”

Chapter 10: Best Work

Even from a distance, framed by a tinted window with open blinds, Sam looks healthier than Armand remembers him looking several months ago on the road.  He’s sleepy, but receptive as Rashid teases his bare chest with cautious fingertips—finally rolling onto his side, arching against Rashid when Rashid’s hand slides from his rib cage to squeeze his hip.  They’ve both been eating well enough to have something to hold onto.

You’ll make me late, Sam mumbles into the curve of Rashid’s neck, no more than a whisper overheard at this distance, not that he’s doing anything to discourage Rashid from grabbing his backside now.  I don’t care how much Alta likes you personally.  She still won’t like it.

I’ll take her a piece of the Number Eight I acquired last week, Rashid responds lazily, pulling Sam tightly against himself as they start to move.  That should take the edge off any perceived slight if you’re running half an hour behind, he continues, increasingly breathy. Sam.

She doesn’t do stone-setting, Sam gasps, crying out softly as Rashid hikes his leg over his hip and hitches him closer.  He doesn’t speak for a minute, just squirms and pants until Rashid says something fond—Clever thing, you’ll set it for her—and comes like he can’t help himself.

Armand isn’t shocked to learn that Sam is such a sensitive, responsive creature in moments of intimacy—and that Rashid is so attentive to him, so protective of him, and that it goes both ways with these young men tethered to each other across time due to the Talamasca’s influence.  Due to Armand’s employment and Petronia’s makerhood, too, but it’s the Talamasca’s fault that these young men became vampires at all.

Sometimes, throughout the worst of what has come to pass, Armand has given thought to dragging Daniel on a world tour of their own and burning down every last Talamasca motherhouse he can find.  Would it mean a declaration of war on Marius’s once perceived-as-benign mortal oddities and pen pals?  Yes, but Armand doesn’t give a fuck.  The Talamasca can’t even leave them all in hell together in peace.

“You call this peace?” Gabrielle asks from where she’s seated next to Armand on the outcropping of sandstone next to an ancient juniper, blowing perique smoke against the indigo-washed, star-pierced sky.  “There’s still light pollution out here.”

Armand ignores the jab and works another American Spirit out of the pack on the dirt between them.  He knows that she means the recently sorted-out cataclysmic mess on the West Coast that Armand has just finished reporting on since his arrival in Pojoaque a couple of hours ago.  She’s bitter that she hadn’t been on hand to witness and help clean it up.  He brings the cigarette to his lips and lights it.

“More peaceful than what’s waiting for you in Miami, should you choose to come with me,” Armand replies.  He peers into the depths of the gorge on which they’re perched; it’s maybe twenty feet down, likely floods when there’s a storm.  Too large to be an arroyo, too small to be a canyon.  From here, they have a clear view of where the Winnebago is parked—on the opposite side of the gorge, next to a tidy casita that’s been on the land for decades.  Lights glow in the windows of both; there’s movement in each.  “How have they been?  Has Sam been writing?”

Gabrielle shakes her head, darting her blue-violet eyes to the casita’s bedroom window.  “Not as much as you’d think,” she says.  “Turns out he couldn’t escape his maker’s creative proclivities in the long run.  He’s been picking up metalsmithing from a couple of locals.  Gemstone inlay techniques from a Diné artisan in Santa Fé—that middle-aged gentleman has a small, but reputable workshop.  Silver overlay techniques from an elderly Hopi neighbor up the road—she married into Tesuque Pueblo and the grandkids aren’t too interested in learning.  I’ve been sending Petronia updates.  They just about fell over when I first told them a few months back.  It’s not intaglio carving and goldsmithing like the business they and Arion ran in Pompeii, but I think Pet’s damned proud anyway.  Sam’s getting good.”  Gabrielle holds out her hand.

Armand studies the silver band on Gabrielle’s right ring finger.  It’s shaped almost like the upper lip of an old-fashioned green glass Coke bottle, fluted along one edge and rounded along the other.  Inlaid around the middle, where the band is broadest, is a thin vein of alternating opal and sugilite slivers.  Armand assumes it’s one of the pieces that Sam has made under his Diné mentor’s supervision.

“Made it at home,” Gabrielle says, folding her hands again.  “The casita’s all but a fucking workshop at this point.  He’s even sold some pieces.”

Armand nods.  “And Rashid has taken to…what, procuring the stones Sam is working with?  Logical, given what he once bought and sold for me.”

“Rashid took an interest in turquoise when he learned stones from different mines around the Southwest have their own distinctive looks.  Number Eight in Nevada’s all but cleaned out, but you can sometimes find stones, raw or otherwise, on the secondhand market.  Costly.”

“Like the situation with old-mine Persian turquoise.  Number Eight, you said?  I’ll want some.”

“That’s not a bad comparison.  I forgot you halfway know your shit when it comes to jewelry.”

“More than halfway,” Armand replies with disdain, waving ringed fingers in front of her face.

“Right, whatever,” Gabrielle says, drawing several pendants from under her faded Roswell tee.

“What about the overlay?” Armand says, ignoring the medallions Gabrielle’s trying to show off.

“A harder technique to learn, between the precision sawing and the soldering,” Gabrielle sniffs.

Inside the casita, Sam kisses Rashid and lavishes attention on him with a sure, fervent hand.  If Armand had known Rashid would make such pretty sounds, he might’ve tried harder to get him in bed.  He’d tried to get Sam in coffin once, but he hadn’t pushed it after Sam’s awkward rebuff.  Far better to listen as Rashid whimpers blissfully into Sam’s mouth and spills blood in his palm.  Sam’s ecstatic abandon in being able to forget himself, Rashid’s joy in giving and accepting pleasure—these make a better match than Armand had ever imagined for either of them.

“That’s why Sam is worried about being late to work with Alta?” Armand asks, finishing his cigarette.  “We should walk over.  They’ll be…done by the time we arrive.  I’d like a word with them before Sam gets out the door.  Fareed and Seth, too.  Try to make up your mind.”

“Why should I come to Miami with you?” Gabrielle asks, dusting off her khakis as she gets to her feet.  “The world’s quiet here.  I like quiet.”

“You’re jealous that you didn’t get to be part of the action,” Armand says, brushing his hands on his overcoat.  “And I think you miss your son.”

“Are you going to tell Seth what happened to his mother,” Gabrielle challenges, “or should I?”

“Estranged as they were, I don’t think he’ll care too much,” Armand says, detached.  “Do you?”

Gabrielle makes a noncommittal noise.  “Given that he and Fareed do contract work for the IHS at the tribal clinic, my guess is…probably not.  He says she never approved of him being a healer instead of a soldier.  Six thousand years later, he’s still doing the opposite of what she wanted.”

Armand walks in silence for a few minutes, thoughtful, letting his gaze drift back to the gorge.  It’s a different kind of desert landscape from the one to which he’d grown accustomed in Dubai.  “Are there other vampires here?” he asks at length.  “Any among the Native population?”

“We met a pair in Albuquerque,” Gabrielle replies.  “The young man was mixed—Mescalero Apache and Mexican.  His companion was old.  Zuñi, about twenty years old during the Pueblo Revolt of 1680.  Some Spaniard she’d taken up with turned her without her consent.  She didn’t find it that hard to lead her maker into the desert one night and strand him where he’d have no knowledge of easy hiding places come dawn.”

Armand has given very little thought to their kind’s history in the New World, let alone how irrelevant the Great Laws would’ve seemed to someone in this woman’s situation.  He pushes the burn of guilt as far down in his chest as he’s able.  “Does anyone here suspect—”

“Oh, a few of the elders seem to know we’re something,” Gabrielle yawns.  “If not for Fareed’s and Seth’s reputation in the community, I’m sure they wouldn’t have bothered to get to know me and Sam.  Rashid wasn’t as tricky to sell on looks alone, although his interest in local geology and gem trading clinched it.  He’s pretending to be related to Fareed, of course.  Sam’s well-liked because he immediately apprenticed himself to local artisans, and he’s good with the kids.  I’m not popular, but they tolerate me because I’ve been passed off as the Irishman’s relative.”

“Sam’s good with the kids?”

“He started a drama club.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

“Fareed and Seth keep to themselves when they’re not at the clinic, but Rashid and Sam let themselves be treated like uncles,” Gabrielle explains.

“All the more reason they should be prepared to leave,” Armand replies.  “Come on.  There’s no time to waste.  Talk to Fareed and Seth while I—”

“They’re not your coven,” Gabrielle interrupts tetchily, stalking toward the Winnebago.  “Not your employees, either.  Try to remember that.”

Armand waits outside the front entrance of the casita until he hears Sam’s and Rashid’s footsteps, drawer rummaging, and closet slamming in the bedroom resolve.  He raises one hand to knock, startled when Rashid abruptly opens the door and gives him an exasperated look.

“Was I that obvious?” Armand asks, stepping inside as Rashid beckons for him to follow.

“I don’t know about obvious, but we could hear you and Gabrielle,” Rashid sighs.  “Love!”

Sam shuffles out of the kitchenette with a pair of mugs in hand, irked.  “Fuckin’—just no.”

“You can’t stay here forever,” Armand says as Sam crosses to Rashid and hands him a mug.

“No one said anything about forever,” Rashid tells Armand, kissing Sam’s cheek in thanks.

“You can’t make us go anywhere,” Sam insists.  “I’m learning a new trade.  I have a job.”

“You have a new hobby.  You run an after school club for rural youth,” Armand corrects.

“What’s the difference?” Rashid asks, taking a seat at the dining table.  He pulls Sam into his lap and tips Sam’s mug of blood up to his lips, giving Armand a pointed look before taking a swallow from his own.  “You once treated your hobby with all the seriousness of a career.”

“Paris?  That was a matter of survival, and you know it.  Sam knows it.”

“Don’t fuckin’ care.  You’re only here ’cause the danger’s passed, so…”

“Astutely observed, Sam.  It has.  But there’s danger if you stay here.”

“Wrong again.  We feed on those who’d harm the locals.  Win-win.”

Armand gives Rashid an exasperated look.  “What does that mean?”

“Lower missing and murdered statistics around here,” Rashid replies.

“Unless you count those who’d normally do the abducting and killing,” Sam adds, making a grab for the piece of carved blackware pottery at the center of the table.  He pushes it toward Armand, pointing proudly at its jingling contents.  “Not my best work, those ones, but…”

Armand picks up a few of the silver rings, sliding his fingers through them to better examine them under the dangling lightbulb.  These are the overlay work that Gabrielle had described as needing more practice, and Armand can see why.  Sam isn’t making an effort to mimic Hopi traditional designs.  The scenes running continuous loops around the bands resemble macabre narratives that Armand wishes he could forget.

“I suppose nobody will be accusing you of cultural appropriation any time soon,” Armand sighs, running his thumb over a shockingly detailed rendering of Woodcutter’s final tableau.  “What does your Hopi grandmother think of the farces and horrors you commemorate?”

“Alta thinks that Sam could push his boundaries a bit further,” Rashid says matter-of-factly.

“Don’t think there are many risks I could take to exceed the local mythology,” Sam admits.

Armand drops the rings back in the pottery bowl.  “That’s…quite honestly a relief to hear.”

Sam fishes in the bowl until he finds one of the rings Armand had been holding, and then hands it back to him.  “I don’t like that one.  Take it.”

Rashid squints in order to determine which one he’s looking at.  “I won’t miss that piece, either, but…passive-aggressive gift, don’t you think?”

Sam shrugs, swallowing what’s left in his mug.  “Maybe.  You don’t have to accept it, maître.”

Armand studies the stylized figures twisting amidst the representations of flames.  He thinks of the detailed casting on the gold locket containing a glass vial of his blood he’d once given Daniel, death and agony captured in even greater detail than Sam has managed with this.

“Why would I not?” Armand asks, smiling as he slides it on his finger.  “I’ll be on my way.”