#halfapocalyptic

great news about armand!

Armand's lips are cool and gentle against the delicate skin of his inner wrist. Daniel wonders if he can feel his pulse, just a fraction faster than usual. He wonders, a little more loudly and a lot more pointedly, how it would feel if Armand sank his teeth into his wrist. It would hurt, he was sure, but that was part of the appeal, wasn't it?

"Do it," he urges suddenly, his voice too loud for the quiet between them. He doesn't care. He's suddenly gripped by the need to know how it would feel for Armand to bite him. Would he taste different now that he isn't terrified witless, embracing death? Would Armand like how he tasted now, or has his age rendered him bland?

He turns his hand to cup Armand's jaw, thumb brushing over his bottom lip as blue eyes seek golden.

Daniel snorts, setting down his empty martini glass. It wasn't as good as Real Rashid's, but what can he expect from a small restaurant in the Turkish countryside?

"How long have you got?" he asks archly.

Behind him, the town square is quiet. It's late, after all, and most sane people are asleep. They have to be awake early, in just a couple of hours.

Daniel doesn't count himself amongst them, the sane ones. Neither an office job nor a job working the land fill him with joy. They both seem so fucking boring, and here he is, sharing a drink and trading verbal blows with a five-hundred plus year old vampire. The things he could learn. Daniel's old, and yet he's never felt more alive.

He sits back and crosses his legs. His foot bumps Armand's calf and lingers there for a moment, eyebrow quirking, and then the moment passes and he settles himself more comfortably.

"I'd say my trouble started sometime around September 1973. I was tortured for a week by these two fucking hicks, I was never right in the head after that." For the first time, Daniel isn't angry when he thinks back to San Francisco and what was taken from him. He's smiling, and while he doesn't quite sound fond, there's an amusement to his tone that's not been there before when they've touched on San Francisco.

"Okay," Daniel says, unblinking and unflinching. He's heard worse, and from people who mean more to him. There's a viscerally petty part of him that hopes Armand hears that.

"Look, I get it. The love of your life, or at least seventy-seven years of it, has fucked off back to his ex. That must smart, right?" He spreads his arms wide and shrugs. "But what do you want me to do about it? Is being a dick to me really gonna make you feel better?"

The worst thing is that it does sting. Armand's been in his head; he knows what to say to get to him, just like he did back in seventy-three. This time it isn't that you're going to amount to nothing. It's you've amounted to nothing.

A few books, sure. But two ex-wives and two daughters who hate him. His funeral will be a sparse affair; a couple of peers who feel obligated to come, no friends, little in the way of family. Maybe he'll skip it entirely, straight to cremation. He hasn't decided yet. He should probably decide sooner rather than later.

His obituary is pre-written and ready with his agent, because he doesn't trust anyone else to do his life justice.

It's a pretty fucking sorry state of affairs, and he knows it. Armand knows he knows it.

When Daniel steps around Armand to call the lift, the wheel of his suitcase squeaks.

He stops, shoulder to shoulder with him. "Do me a favour and don't eat Rashid."

And then the lift doors open, and he steps in.

       the killing had come naturally to her after her change, but that was to be expected. in her own mind at least. she'd had practice. when she was a child, it was a difficult thing. lighting the flame that killed her mother was a guilty act, a thing done from the mercy and fear of a child's mind. her destruction now is aimed, has a purpose. but she has no partner, no friends. nothing but the bitter quiet of the residence she keeps for society's sake alone. the walls come down on her every night. they leave her just as isolated as she was when she was a child; wandering the streets for friendship and love and a hint of something other than herself. even now, she longs for the companionship of someone like her.

Astarion is, frankly, taking his ass in his hands by coming back here. He doesn't know what the coven do to deserters, but he gets the impression that it's nothing good. Then again, he might be wrong. Surely they've had members leave and come back before? And if not, maybe he can be the first, a trail-blazer, a trend-setter.

If they don't turn him out into the sun, that is. He hopes they don't; it seems a miserable way to die.

"I - ah," Astarion gives a little shrug. "Well, maître, I missed you." He hates the way that word feels in his mouth, how he can never quite get it out without a hesitation. He has to rush through it, and never, ever lets himself stop to consider the true meaning of it.

And what he says isn't quite true, though he's sure that Armand will like to hear it. What he missed is the structure, having a fixed place in the world, being surrounded by others like him. Astarion isn't made for a solitary life, that's what he's discovered these past three months.

The theatre isn't perfect, the rest of the coven can be a fucking nightmare, and he hates sleeping in a coffin - cliché, tacky - but at least he has a purpose. At least he doesn't have to hunt for himself or deal with the body in the aftermath. Ugh. Horrible business.

That isn't his concern right now. His priority is ingratiating himself with Armand once more, so that he might be allowed back without hassle. Where will he go if he's refused?

"People like - people like me?" Roman asks, cocking his head to the side as if that might help him discern the hidden meaning in Louis' words.

Truth be told, he hates this: coming in to gently but firmly insist that those casettes - which, yes, they know about - never see the light of day. It's for the best, or it's just kinder for everyone, or some other company line bullshit that he doesn't really believe in or care about.

But Dad told him to come, so here he is, and his neck feels horribly bare and exposed. It always does when he has to deal with these fucking freaks. He should get a scarf; it won't do anything, but it'll make him feel better.

Roman makes an immediately-forgotten mental note to ask his PA to remind him to buy a scarf.

Back to the business at hand.