Work Text:
1990
It was early in the evening and it was snowing in Paris. Mortals were packed tightly inside the cafes on boulevard Saint-Germaine, outside the steamed windows, with their cigarettes, dressed in over sized coats and woolly scarves. Lovers huddled close with mugs of mulled wine in between them.
Armand watched from the window of his house, a smile barely there on his face. One such cafe was at the bottom of the building, illuminating the snowy pavement. If he focused, he could hear the muffled conversations, the carefree laughter. The crunching of snow under hurried feet on the pavement.
In the house it was quiet, save for the crackling of the fireplace.
Then a soft, barely audible sound startled him from his reverie.
At first he thought it was just the wind in the pipes. It was an old house, he had it build back in the nineteen century, once he’d convinced Louis to come back to Paris with him. They did not stay here long. A few years ago he’d started renovating it, alongside the mansion in Florida, and later, Night Island. When the noise of Miami became too much, the familiarity of Paris was a welcome change.
He’d left it to the mortals to manage for the most part, only faxing over instructions sporadically. Moved a few paintings, some furniture, new security cameras. Many rooms were still closed off as he had yet to decide what to make of them.
Daniel, wandering and erratic as he was at the moment, had never stepped foot in here. He didn’t know where he was at the moment, but he’d yet to call for Armand. Armand was bone tired of it, could not look for his fledgling anymore than Daniel wanted to be found. He was done with the chase. Better leave him alone before more fighting ensued.
At some point before he’d abandoned Night Island, he’d told Lestat about his Paris residence.
He hoped maybe that information would shake him from his every persistent melancholy. After the Queen had been destroyed, he would not speak to anyone. Yet he the others continued to watch him. Waiting their turn, questions on their lips, tales to tell. So briefly, he became the rock star vampire once more, and Armand could not even find it in him to stop Daniel for telling their own bitterness tale. Lestat knew better than to ask him though, but the look on his face told him he got a complete motion picture straight from his beloved’s mind, commentary included, of the previous ten or so years.
Lestat wrote another his book. Slowly, their coven went back to their own immortal life. Pandora, Louis, Marius, Santino, Khayman. Daniel started wandering more and more on his own. Lestat kept to himself, even after the book was long finished. Armand would rarely see him, but this presence under his roof was undeniable.
It was all coming to an end again, this new coven of all who once stood together. They have never spoken of it, but Lestat knew it as well as he did.
With that feeling hanging over him, he sought him out. After all, all the things he had deemed worth of keeping from the old tower and from the Théâtre, they were sealed in the attic, here in this house. He told himself Lestat would want to know.
“Keep them,” Lestat offered a sad smile. Armand set the stack of papers on the desk. Lestat was on the sofa, staring at the muted TV.
Quite deliberately, the blond fixed his eyes on him. Armand could not read him. He could hear the humming of electricity. He could hear Lestat’s heart. He realized they were the only ones on the premises in that moment. Lestat was still for a long moment.
He could not stop the thought that he wished they were in a candle lit room, with soft velvets and furs, away from these harsh modern lights, from the pristine white sofa.
“Armand,” he finally said. Come here, he added, glancing at the space next to him, the beckon leaving no room for misunderstanding.
He sat down beside him. The tape on the coffee table read Edward Scissorhands. Lestat grabbed the remote and put the volume up. The lights around them dimmed then went out, leaving a single lamp glowing behind them somewhere.
Armand was motionless, not sure of what was going to happen. In that few inches of plush leather, he could feel the distance between them stretch across the years. Lestat simply pushed him against the back of the sofa and laid his head in his lap, fingers curling around his knees.
He didn’t know how long it took him to start breathing again, or to gently raise his own hand and run his fingers through thick, soft, golden hair. Neither said anything. Soon enough the movie captivated his attention. He closed his eyes, listening.
When he opened them again, the TV was off and it was almost sunrise. Lestat’s weight on him must have lulled him to sleep. Blue eyes were lazily looking down on him now, long fingers idly running through his auburn curls. At some point they switched positions, Armand’s head coming to rest on Lestat’s chest.
He opened his mouth but no words came out. He could feel his strong pulse thrumming so close to his skin. He had fed tonight, quite obviously. Overwhelmed, he closed his eyes, basking in the moment.
He did not see Lestat give him that lingering sad smile again, nor did he see him bite his lip until he drew blood. The smell had him open his eyes, and as Lestat’s face came into view again, a sigh escaped him. Lestat pressed his lips against his, only a few drops of blood, no more, but in them Armand heard his own words from long ago echoed back to him
citadels against time
The other vampire let go. He stroked Armand’s cheek with the back of his hand, once, twice, before getting up and back to his suite in the Villa. Armand did not follow him, much as he ached to do so.
Lestat had been so weary, weary from losing Akasha, then weary as he was losing their Night Island coven. Armand could see as much in his touch, silent in his almost violent despair that mirrored his own.
He couldn’t bear being around him. Lestat was going to starve him more than human blood could. The urge to push him off the seventh story Villa balcony had been strong that night.
The imperceptible noise again. He turned away from the window. He crossed the dim lit parlor to sit in one of the velvet armchairs. Still as a statue, he contemplated entertaining the sort of presence he was fairly sure he was hearing. One day, he should deal with it for good, harmless as it was to him. Finally, he sighed. Just this once, for old time’s sake.
“Come out, petite,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the painting above the fireplace. Maybe he should replace it. A Rembrandt, perhaps.
Nothing moved. Then the window swiftly and suddenly opened, cold air blasting in. Armand let out a quiet exhale, and turned his head slightly. Not fully looking in that direction, but enough so she thought that he was.
You should go to him.
Despite fully anticipating it, he flinched at that childlike voice whisper in his mind. There was something about it he could never get used to. The room felt suffocating all of a sudden. He could not blame Louis for not wanting to remain in this house, even as Louis was obvious to her presence.
Claudia.
Silhouetted against the cold gray window, he could see the snow falling through her transparent shape. Her curls were unmoving even as the thick curtains behind her were gently swaying in the breeze. With a quick flick of his hand, the windows snapped back shut back again. The illusion flickered, an annoyed scoff on her face.
He’s waiting for you. But he will not wait for long.
He drew the curtains too for good measure, which made her let out a shrill scream.
Armand merely stared, already regretting indulging her. Was he that lonely? Was she his punishment for being sentimental about the brat? If he were to be yelled at by someone, he might as well go find Daniel. Just to make sure he was unharmed, nothing more.
Or don’t go to him. You never help anyone, only destroy them.
With that, for a split second he had before him the monster he’d created in his desperate attempt to defy the natural law, the law that even creatures as they are must be subject to. Her form was all wrong, tall and contorted, crude stitches coming apart. Her head was going to tumble down, then her arm would fall apart, then..
Armand closed his eyes.
She was gone.
He was alone again, the windows were open. Snow was falling on the dark oak floors and turning into puddles. Outside, the Paris skyline seemed endless. Somewhere far, there was light coming from Hôtel des Invalides. He didn’t want to look at it anymore.
He put his arms around himself in an attempt to preserve the little warmth he had left from the fire He didn’t want to move, but the dread that something was suddenly very wrong was slowly creeping in.
Damn you, miserable child.
He wanted to speak to the only person he knew he could not, not about this. Lestat. He knew he would rather face the consequences of any trouble Daniel would get in rather than go to Lestat for help. Or worse, for pity.
No, he will find Daniel and deal with it himself.
Armand got up, put out the dying fire. He grabbed his coat and gloves from where he’d left them earlier and leaped on the windowsill. With one look back at the fire place, he jumped out into the snow.
He’ll go north. Norway, perhaps. He’s heard Daniel was fond of cold places these days, and he would be able to send a message from there, if anything.
Armand went into the direction of the airport.
In the empty house, no one heard Claudia’s mocking laughter.