Work Text:
Theft
Kidnapping
Battery
Arson
Rape
Fraud
Yelling at a grocery store employee until she cries because she misspelled your son’s name on his birthday cake
The actions of an evil doer range across a spectrum. Should Daniel rearrange that list until he’s satisfied he has them all in order from crimes that, while hurtful, aren’t “that bad,” on one end and ones that are irredeemable–too heinous to overlook–on the other?
Who is he to say where each one falls? Does a handful of small crimes ever equal a bigger one? What crime does someone have to commit to be deserving of death? How far can you go before you reach a point beyond redemption? Is there such a point? A vicious serial killer has a soft spot for kids, maybe there’s a glimmer of humanity able to shine through the murkiness of his soul. Maybe he has a soul after all. Maybe it can be saved.
Who calibrates the scale and decides when things are being weighed fairly? Not Daniel, that’s for sure. And he doesn’t subscribe to Armand’s philosophy on ethical food consumption. He’s not going to lull someone into a trance with a soothing, hypnotic voice and string out the most miserable parts of their life just so they’ll beg him to end it.
It’s all a justification anyway, a way to make themselves feel better for their transgressions against the species they were once a part of but now have to slaughter for their own survival. It’s a waste of time to dwell on it even if he does have an innumerable amount of years stretched out in front of him. Anything can be twisted to slot perfectly in the gap between logic and fallacy.
All of this is to say, Daniel is a firm believer in impartial intuitive eating. And right now, under the strobing fluorescent lights of the bakery section in some small grocery store he doesn’t know the name of, letting his stomach instead of his moral compass guide him toward his next meal has never served him better. But if Daniel was to pick a crime for his victim to have committed in order to justify his dinner selection, he’d choose disturbing the peace.
He wasn’t even supposed to have been out tonight. Armand had regressed and needed supervision but they had depleted their emergency blood bag supply and they made it a point not to let the lure of convenience cause them to get sloppy, meaning feeding on the neighbors was off limits.
So there Daniel was, on the hunt, looking for someone to bring home to fill his kid’s belly.
Vampiric hearing has its perks and its pitfalls. Being able to hear the man’s yelling before he had even entered the store would definitely fall into the latter category. But on second thought, judging from the irked expressions of the people walking past him on the street, that might not have been the result of supernatural senses, that might just be how loud he was yelling.
He walked into the store and followed the sound of the man’s voice like a shark trailing a stream of chum in the water. It had bounced off every object on the shelves and into Daniel’s sensitive ears where it rattled around, disorienting him. Concentrating on tuning out all other sources of auditory stimulation, Daniel had located the origin of the commotion and that’s how he ended up being a witness to one of the most cartoonish displays of modern day entitlement.
The man is average in every way. Daniel had expected a more threatening appearance to match the booming voice but, no, he’s the typical late thirties, white collar, corporate cog. Without even breaking out the mind gift to dig around in his brain, Daniel can see the cubicle office he’s just rushed over here from; the dry bodega sandwich choked down at his desk while he types with his free hand; the tepid and watery breakroom coffee he chugged to wash away the bread crumbs that tickled his throat and made him cough; the draining train ride back to Newark; the dark, impersonal apartment, sparsely filled except for a thick tangible silence stretching out in each direction as he toes off his scuffed dress shoes; the cold bed he’ll lie in and wonder how he’s supposed to get up the next day and do it all over again.
Only a couple of years into vampirism and it already takes a lot more effort for Daniel to be sympathetic towards the petty plights of humans than it did when he was one of them. It’s all just so insignificant and it’s a testament to Armand’s love for him that he had put up with it in the past and even genuinely cared to listen to his griping and belly aching over shit that, he can admit now, meant fuck all in the grand scheme of things. Of course, Daniel did have actual problems worth complaining about back then: a life threatening addiction to his vampire lover’s blood; a girlfriend, pregnant with a baby he didn’t want who was expecting him to do the decent thing and commit; a journalistic career and a thirst for success that demanded he didn’t, that he remain unencumbered and free to keep chasing after the carrot bobbing in front of his face. Problems like that, problems where your options and decisions have the potential to fork your life in opposing paths, those he can entertain. He’d be nowhere if he didn’t. He’s built a career off documenting sob stories and selling them to the highest bidder, or in his early days when he had no worth, no prestige tied to his name, giving them away for free to anyone who would spare the copy space.
Print media is a whisper drowned out in the wind now but even if it wasn’t, Daniel doesn’t think he would find anyone desperate enough for a story to waste their ink on this. No matter how he spins it, someone who gets red-faced and forehead veiny over frosting on a cake is a sad sack the world would be better off forgetting.
“Can’t you read? Right here on the form- right here it says ‘Mickey’! Mickey! M-I-C-K-E-Y! Like the fucking mouse! Never heard of him?”
The man, going so far as to hold up his balled fists on top of his head to act as ears and affect a Mickey Mouse voice, says, “Hot dog, hot dog, hot diggity dog!”
The impression is so spot on Daniel would give him props if this grocery store in the middle of New York City was actually Disneyland and he was a character actor instead of a pathetic power tripping man-child with spit barreling out of his mouth and sweat beading up on his hairline; fat, glistening drops rolling down and dampening his collar.
“Still nothing?” the man barks at the young worker’s resulting baffled expression.
The girl pushes her glasses up her nose and says, slowly with strained patience as if talking to a difficult child, “I do know who Mickey Mouse is, sir. And we’re very sorry about the mistake. We can fix it for you for no charge if that’s what you‘d like.”
Kid, you just looked a gorilla in the eye and showed him your pearly whites.
Her eyes, magnified by the thick convex lenses that sit in front of them, fly wide open and dart around looking for the source of the voice that, Daniel knows from first hand experience, feels like it was beamed directly into her head. She’s pulled out of her startled confusion when Tomato Face snaps his fingers next to her ear.
“Hey! Are you even listening to me?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“So you weren’t listening. You completely screw up my son’s birthday and talk to me like I’m fucking slow, like it’s my fault you’re too incompetent to frost some letters on a fucking cake, like you’re doing me some huge favor by fixing it when it should’ve been done right the first time!”
“That wasn’t what I- I just meant we can fix the cake for you, it's no problem.” The poor girl is floundering and Daniel can feel the salty sting of her tears up his nose when they well up and spill over onto her freckled cheeks.
“No, see it is a problem for me because I paid for this cake upfront and I didn’t pay for a shitty hack job—fucking frosting Wite-Out and a write over— there isn’t even any goddamn room for it! You got the creepers too close! You’d have to fix them too! No, I want a refund.”
Creepers? If this is a Minecraft cake the guy’s got, well, that sweetens the deal, doesn’t it? Because now Daniel isn’t just bringing home some prime cut grade-A asshole that conveniently manages to fit neatly within the parameters of Armand’s dietary restrictions, he’s also bringing home dessert for dinner. It’s a classic win over your kid’s heart move that he hasn’t been able to bust out since his oldest daughter was out of elementary school. Oatmeal Creme Pies and Twix bars from the bodega had stopped eliciting squeals and hugs once the girls wised up to the fact that their dad wasn’t being the fun parent; rather he was the unprepared and negligent parent that was too strung out to bother with providing them anything of nutritional value.
At one point, during his lowest days of declining book sales and a hailstorm of press criticism, he can remember waking up in the bathroom lying face down in a puddle of his own vomit, nose burning as some of it was blown out of a nostril in a bubble. Lenora was kneeling by him, sobbing violently and blubbering that Kate had gone out to get them food but hadn’t come back. Apparently she had left early in the morning before breakfast time and it was now nearing 2pm. He had searched the city for hours, Lenora sniffling on his hip, and eventually found Kate in the fossil section of the Museum of Natural History trailing behind a class of students her age visiting on a field trip. She was still in her pajamas, hair unbrushed and breath stale when she screamed in his face that she hated him and how she had been hoping he was dead on the floor when she left.
Daniel had cooked dinner for them that night, pasta and canned sauce. Lenora wolfed down three bowls, barely stopping to chew and Kate refused to take more than a few bites, pushing her food around, saying the noodles were mushy—he’d cooked them for too long, mom always sets a timer for exactly what it says on the box, maybe he should try that next time. But there wasn’t a next time. Once Alice heard the story she had never let them spend the night again and when they did visit for the day they came pre-fed.
So Daniel will bring this man and his Minecraft cake home and Armand will eat enough to sustain himself through his self punishing periods of food deprivation, until his stomach is protruding and his body is burning at a normal human temperature, and Daniel will try to forget the sound of cruel laughter aimed at his daughter when she asked the group of children if anybody would share their lunch leftovers with her.
Just as the counter girl is about to open her trembling mouth to tell the man that they can only give him a partial refund if the manager approves it, Daniel intercepts and addresses him directly.
“Hey, I can tell you’re a busy guy. You got a birthday party to go to, I assume, so why are you wasting your time on this? Y’know what? I know a great little mom and pop place just a couple blocks down that does walk in orders. They have the cakes all decorated, you just tell them what to write. And they do it right there in front of you so you can make sure they do it just how you want.”
The man recoils his neck and blinks rapidly at him, seemingly offended that Daniel is even talking to him.
“But I already paid for this one. I’m not going to pay for another fucking cake. What kind of sense does that make?” He huffs, exasperated and already writing Daniel off as an idiot not worth his time.
“Sure, yeah. I mean I’d be happy to cover the bill. Just bring that cake with you. There’s no point wasting it, right?” Without waiting for a response, Daniel takes the man by his shoulders and ushers him away from the counter and out the door. “C’mon, let’s go. I’ll show you where it’s at. Didn’t catch your name by the way.”
“That’s because I didn’t tell you. It’s Mark. And look man, I don't need some sad, lonely, old geezer’s money. I make six figures. I can provide for my family on my own.”
Daniel rolls his eyes, tightens his grip around Mark’s shoulders, and picks up the pace, not wanting to spend more time with this asshole than necessary. He just needs to get him in the apartment and on their turf and then it’s bon appétit for Armand and lights out for Mr. Big Shot.
“No, hey, it’s not charity. You got the money no doubt about it but I’m a big believer in karma so I’m just trying to do my one act of kindness for the day; help a divorced dad and his kid out, gain some brownie points with the universe, all that good stuff. Plus, I know how hard it is.”
Keeping stride with Daniel, Mark asks, “How’d you know I’m divorced? And you’ve got kids? They alright? Because it’s not just the eggs that go bad, I heard.”
Coming up, Daniel can see the halal cart that marks the halfway point between the grocery store they just left from and Daniel’s apartment. “You’ve got that frantic divorced dad look and like I said, I know. I’ve been there. And they’re fine, thanks. My girls are grown, married. My boy’s 27.” Or 520. Sometimes he’s 5 (but it could be younger), 10, 12, 15, 17. Armand’s age when he regresses is never clearly defined to Daniel or himself.
“Okay, because I was going to say, man. If they were young, like even if you knocked some tight fertile thing up, your kids might be a little,” he makes the cuckoo motion near his temple.
“Well, they could be riding the short bus if you get what I mean.”
Daniel turns his head and gives Mark a tight, mirthless smile and squeezes him into his side, “You’re a real stand up guy, aren’t you? You really care about the kids, huh?”
“I guess, yeah? I mean, they’d be around my Mickey; going to school with him and stuff and I don’t want him around a bunch of freaks. He’s a good kid. Speaking of, does this place you’re taking me to do Minecraft cakes? You didn’t say and that’s specifically what he asked for so if they don’t, I’m going to be pretty fucking pissed off.”
“And we can’t have that , can we?”
Chuckling, Marks says “No, we can not. I’m already late enough as it is. I heard so much bitching from the ex wife about not being able to get off work early but I told her ‘It’s my overtime that’s putting child support money in your pocket and since I’m basically paying for this party, it can wait until I’m able to be there.’ Of course, that was supposed to be four hours ago when it was still daylight out but I got caught up and work and then the whole cake fuck up and well, you know all about that so I won’t ev-”
“Yeah, okay. We’re here,” Daniel says, cutting Mark off and gesturing toward the wide building, its windows glowing softly with life. Daniel has honestly never been so fucking glad to be home. He tunes his hearing onto the corner window of the fourth floor and the monotonous voice of the How It’s Made narrator floods his ears.
Weeds like to grow at the base of lavender plants, siphoning off water and important soil nutrients so between May and September, killing those weeds is a vital daily ritual.
And this is where the perks of vampiric hearing come in. Because with it—despite street noise, distance, and layers of brick and concrete and paint—Daniel can hear Armand’s high voice say “Oh no! Poor weeds! They kill the weeds, Kiddie. That’s so sad. They just wanted water.”
If he were human like his good friend Mark here, he wouldn‘t have been able to hear that. And maybe it’s a small, inconsequential thing to miss out on but to Daniel, hearing something as simple as Armand feeling so passionate about lavender weeds and talking to his stuffed animal about it is what keeps him from descending into a state of complete nihilistic doom. Maybe the world and everyone in it is fucked up beyond repair but as long as that world still holds Armand, who finds enough interest in it to watch a tv show about the machines and products that are slowly killing it, Daniel will do his part to try and make it better. Which means that, yes, sometimes he’ll betray his ethos on who he chooses as sustenance and snuff out an evil doer of his own conviction.
“No way this is it. It just looks like some random ass apartment.”
“It’s a small business. They work out of their home,” Daniel replies dryly and pushes Mark up the stairs.
The man stumbles as he resists against Daniel’s hands. “Health code violationsamundo, man! I’m not buying anything from a place where someone can piss in the sink without repercussion. I’ll just stick with this one,” Mark says, lifting the cake in his hands.
At his wits end, Daniel decides a bit of mind gift practice wouldn’t hurt.
Go inside, now.
The effect of the command is weak, his power nowhere near as strong as vampires as old as Armand or Lestat, but Mark stops resisting. Instead, he slowly and hesitantly, walks up the stairs, into the building, and up to the fourth floor.
His resistance comes back as Daniel opens the door to the apartment and instructs him to go inside without making a fuss. “N-no. What’s happening? Why am I-”
Armand’s head pops up from where he’d been lying on the couch. “Daddy! You’re back!” He bounces on his bottom and springs to his feet, shuffling over to greet him at the door with a kiss smacked onto his cheek. “I’m hungry. There’s no more of my yummy juice in the fridge. I keep looking and it’s not there. Every time I go look it’s still empty.”
Ruffling Armand’s already mussed hair, Daniel says, “I know, kiddo. We’re all out of juice pouches right now but that’s why I brought you dinner, yeah?” He motions for Mark to come further into the apartment and once he does Daniel closes the door.
Mark is standing stiff as a board, rigid as Daniel compels him to stay still and silent. His chest rises and falls rapidly and he starts to try and scream behind his frozen lips as Armand moves closer to inspect his meal. Daniel gets it, the sight of a 6 foot man with huge orange eyes wearing a red gingham pajama set and fuzzy cat paw socks sticking his nose in your face like a curious puppy is probably disconcerting if you’re not used to it but to Daniel it’s an everyday occurrence. It’s one he looks forward to, even. If you ignore the fact that by getting in your face, Armand is sizing you up like you’re a scary, unfamiliar vegetable on his plate and he’s debating between taking a bite or flinging you across the room in disgust, there’s no reason to be so terrified.
Armand doesn’t use his mind powers on others when he’s little unless his emotions become too big for him to handle and he loses control. He says he doesn’t like hearing the mean thoughts or seeing the bad things people imagine so he stays out of their heads. Apparently needing more information to make his decision on if he’ll accept or reject Mark as dinner, Armand cocks his head to the side and asks,“Is he a bad guy?”
“Oh, yeah. A real bad guy, trust me. Truly the worst of the worst.”
“Hmmm…okay. What did he do that is bad?”
“You want to tell him what you did, Mark? Quietly, of course. It’s late and we don’t want to alert the neighbors.”
Daniel lets his hold over Mark lessen enough to allow him to speak and predictably, the man starts shouting.
“I don’t know! I don’t know what I did! I swear I didn’t do-”
Armand slaps his hand over Mark’s mouth and glares. “Shhh! Are you stupid? Daddy said quietly!” He holds a finger up to his lips. “Inside voice, okay?”
“W-what is wrong with you? Why are you talking like that?” He says to Armand and then to Daniel, “What is this s-sick shit? Y-you guys are some f-fucked up fucking freaks.”
Feeling a rush of protectiveness and anger run through him, Daniel grabs Mark by the jaw and yanks him so he’s facing away from Armand. “There’s nothing wrong with him. Now tell us what bad thing you did so we can hurry this along.”
“N-nothing. I didn’t do anything.”
“You know that’s not true.” He raps two fingers against Mark’s head. “Think. The bakery… the girl at the counter… the cake.”
“Cake? What cake?” Armand pipes in.
“You didn’t notice it?”
“Nuh-uh!”
Grinning, Daniel pries the cake out of Mark’s hands—the plastic container making a racket— and holds it in front of Armand so he can see it, anticipating his pleased reaction. It delivers beyond expectation. Armand gasps and his pupils blow wide, almost fully eclipsing the orange irises surrounding them and his socked feet rise so he’s hovering an inch or two in the air. The happiness in his voice rings out like the delicate, crystalline melody of a wind chime when he exclaims, “Creepers! Daddy, It’s Minecraft!”
“Yeah. Isn’t it cool? It’s all for you, sweetheart.”
An asshole, even in the face of death and despite his trembling and the fear radiating off of him in waves, Mark cuts in, “It’s not for him! It’s for my son! My son, whose birthday it is today, who is an actual kid.”
The light in Armand’s eyes dies instantly, like a small hopeful flame getting put out by a bucket of water. He thuds mutedly onto solid ground and his curls seem to droop down instead of bouncing back into place.
“It’s not my cake, daddy.”
Daniel wants to rip Mark’s throat out with his bare teeth for making Armand look and sound so dejected. Without using fangs to ease the viciousness, just blunt human molars and useless canines tearing into the man’s flesh, Daniel would relish in his screams of agony. But they’ll get there. Instead, Daniel cups Armand’s soft cheek and rubs it soothingly with his thumb.
“But you want it right?”
Armand nods. “Yes. I’ve never had a birthday cake in my entire life. And...and I like this one because it has creepers so…” he trails off, gnawing his small bottom lip.
“So it’s yours. You want it, so it’s yours. Anything you want is yours. Screw that guy and his kid. He’s a fuck-head nobody who yells at people to feel better about himself.”
Thankfully those pretty eyes are shining again and are locked in on his.
“He’s a meanie? That’s why he’s a bad guy?”
“Yup! A big ol’ meanie who is going to eat this whole cake just so we can have a taste. How’s that sound?”
“Good, because if he eats a lot then his blood will be really sweet!”
“My blood will be what ? What are you talking about? Please just let me go, man! I won’t tell anybody I swear! Please, I'm begging you.”
Daniel drags Mark into the kitchen by his shirt collar with one hand. He slams him into a chair and sets the cake on the table in front of him.
“Nah, I just made my boy a promise so it’s too late. Sorry.”
Popping the lid away from the bottom half of the container, and lifting it up, Daniel gets his first proper look at the cake. It’s a standard rectangular sheet cake covered in smooth green frosting with fondant creeper faces scattered on the top and sides of it. In the middle, written in black block font, is the source of Mark’s explosive rage: Happy Birthday Mikey.
“It’s supposed to say ‘Mickey,’ illiterate bitch.”
Well, regardless, thanks for the cake Mickey. Sorry to ruin your birthday. Daniel will mail him a card and maybe he’ll slip a twenty in there as a bereavement payout. That’s more than the kid’s asshole father’s life is worth anyway.
“Start eating, Mark.”
“C’mon, I can’t finish an entire cake by myself! I don’t even have a fork.”
At times like this, when his food is being difficult, Daniel does miss being human. Just a bit. He never had a burger whine and yell at him before he took a bite.
Before he can move towards the utensil drawer, Armand appears in the entryway. He’s sheepishly knocking one of his feet against the other and rubbing his thumb and index finger together. “There’s no more forks, remember? We don’t need them so I put them all in the garbage ’sposal.”
Laughing, Daniel claps Mark on the shoulder. “Ok, seems like you’re shit out of luck, pal! Just dig your pig trotters in there and scoop it up.”
Mark finally looks defeated and stares at the cake, resigned to whatever Daniel has in store for him. “You’re really going to do this in front of your kid?” He gestures to Armand, standing there drowning in his oversized pjs and blinking owlishly at them with innocent enthrallment. He’s right. Daniel doesn’t want Armand to see this. It’s not like he’s wholly sheltered from the source of their food when he’s regressed. He does feed from humans and doesn’t subsist solely on blood bags but Daniel likes to keep him as far removed from the gritty, cruel side of hunting as possible, even if the victims are scumbags.
“Hey, baby? You wanna go to the living room and watch tv while daddy gets dinner ready?”
“Okay, but can I look at the cake one last time before he eats it? Please?”
“Yeah, come here.”
Armand shuffles over to the table and peers down at the cake. He pokes one of the creepers with his finger and giggles at the texture of the fondant.
“It’s a nice cake. Your son would like it I think. It’s his birthday today?”
Mark nods slowly like his head is too heavy for his neck. His eyes are watering and every swallow is visibly being forced down with a harsh bob of his Adam's apple.
“It’s a happy day. Don’t be sad. How old is he turning?”
“E-eight. Please… are you going to kill me?”
“Eight? That’s big! He’s older than me.”
“Okay…okay, so you love your dad, right?”
“Mhmm! I love him a lot!”
“If you love him, wouldn't you be sad if someone killed him? Wouldn’t you be sad if you went to a baseball game with your dad one weekend and you waved goodbye as you got in your mom’s car thinking you’d see him at your birthday party in a few days but he never came because someone killed him? I think you would be. I think you’d be very sad.”
Armand’s breathing has become labored and his waterline is rimmed with red. “Daddy…”
“Go to the living room, baby. I’ll be done in a minute.”
In a blur of movement, Armand is out of the kitchen and the How It’s Made narrator is back at a normal volume, this time droning on about ice cream sandwiches.
Without any prompting or force from Daniel, Mark forms a scoop with his hand and brings the cake to his mouth and eats it handful by handful. Eventually he stops about three fourths of the way through.
“He’s had a lot of trouble reading and writing—Mickey has. A late bloomer, I guess. All the kids in his class could write their own name except for him. Something— I don’t know what— but something must’ve clicked into place because a month ago he suddenly got it and he’s been writing it everywhere.” He sniffles and takes the last few bites of cake.
“This would be the first birthday he’d be able to read his name on his cake. I just wanted it to be right.”
“I’m sorry about Mickey but everyone’s got a reason why it shouldn’t be them, why I’m making the wrong choice, why I should feel bad for them. And It’s not like I don’t– I do– but I have reasons too. Him, above all. I could give you a million to try and explain to you why he needs this and why I’ll do it for him but really they all boil down to the same thing: I love him just like you love Mickey.”
Mark doesn’t reply, he simply closes his eyes and holds his hands palm side up on the table in surrender. There are black lines of chocolate cake wedged beneath his nails and his fingers are smeared with saliva and green frosting. They’re shaking as badly as Daniel’s used to before he was turned—when the Parkinson’s was still decimating the nerve cells in his brain— the way they are again now as he calls Armand back into the kitchen.
“Is it ready?”
“Yeah,” Daniel waves Armand over. “Let’s eat.”
Armand stands by Mark and then drops to his knees, grabbing Mark’s wrist and fidgeting in excitement as he looks up at Daniel for permission to start eating.
“Go slow, okay? It’s going to be really sweet so you don’t want to drink too fast and get a stomach ache. Go ahead. Take a bite.”
The delicate skin of Mark’s wrist pops beneath Armand’s fangs and alongside the metallic zing of iron, notes of sugar and chocolate swirl together and harmonize. The blood must taste good because Armand is now taking greedy gulps, his eyelashes fluttering like the uncertain wings of a butterfly before it finally takes flight. It’s a beautiful display but Daniel can’t bring himself to join Armand in the experience. He doesn’t think he can let Mark’s blood flow over his tongue and project flashes of his life into his mind as he drains him. He doesn’t want to watch the seed of an inferiority complex being planted in Mark by his overbearing father; how that seed germinated and grew stubborn roots that pulled his first love, first steady job, first business venture, any dreams he had, down underneath the damp soil and suffocated them. But then there would be Mickey– a resilient, vulnerable bud growing among the tangle of thorns Mark wrapped around himself.
Daniel knew he could focus on him. He could let Mark relive his last moments with his son. So he pushes past the thin barrier around Mark’s mind and dives in, submerging himself in the memory and relaying it to Mark in snapshots as Armand keeps drinking.
You said you’d buy him a cap that fit him at one of the stadium shops but he said he wanted to wear yours. You let him and the bill kept falling down over his eyes. Everytime you pulled it back up he’d laugh and ask what he missed even if it was only blocking his view for a few seconds. He pulled your arm over the armrest and hugged it. He asked if you could take him to every game from now on. You said yes even if you knew you couldn’t. You knew you’d be getting the promotion you worked yourself to the bone for and wouldn’t have the time anymore. You’d have to ask for a day off just to be able to see him once a month. It was okay if you lied as long as he smiled at you wide enough that you could see his missing front tooth.
You were scared you’d lose your temper with him if he started throwing a fit when it was time to leave but your fears were unwarranted because even though he was disappointed that your team lost and Mickey didn’t want to give your cap back, he was older now and that beaming smile never left his face as you two walked hand in hand through the exit.
He got in his mom’s car and waved at you as they pulled away. He rolled down the window and shouted “I’ll see you soon, dad! I love you!” You made him happy that day. Don’t cry. He was with you and he was happy. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. Don’t cry.
“Why are you crying, daddy?”
The sound of Armand’s voice reaches him through thick layers of emotion and when he comes up to break the surface, he finds that he is crying like Armand said. The tears run thin and barely trickle out of the corners of his eyes but they’re there. He wipes at them and clears his throat before smiling at Armand and dodging the question.
“How was your first ever birthday cake? You like it?”
The birthday cake in question–Mark– is slumped over, lifeless and a bloodless, chalky white in the chair.
“Yes, I liked it! But why are y-”
“Then I’m crying because I’m happy, honey.”
Armand’s lips quirk in uncertainty, not buying it but in his little state he can’t think of any argument that would get him to the truth so he lets it drop.
“Oh, okay. Mark was happy too. I could see it and taste it. He was thinking about Mickey. At first he was sad and his blood tasted sour and burnt but then it tasted sweet when you reminded him how much Mickey loves him. You gave him a happy death even if you didn’t like him.”
“Do unto others and what not. I’d want someone to make me think of you in my last moments, that’s all. Good guy, bad guy, it doesn’t matter. I had the opportunity so I did it.”
“You’re a good guy, daddy.”
“As long as you think so.”
“I do. I do think so.” Blood drips from Armand’s chin as he nods vigorously. He’s a messy, unrestrained eater when little, nothing like his usual prim and waste not self.
“And I think you need a bath. You’ve got frosting in your hair and blood all over your PJs.”
“But I’m feeling fizzy! Like how in the movies when soda goes BOOM? That’s how I feel. I feel like I will go BOOM! And then I will be exploded.”
“You have a sugar rush, huh? Well, it’s bath time first and then you can play or watch tv or ‘go boom’ while I get rid of the body.” Daniel heads to the bathroom, Armand dawdling behind him. He turns the light on and dims it until it’s warm and cozy with the fancy dimmer Armand had installed.
As Armand peels his bloody clothes off and kicks them into a pile on the floor, he asks, “Can we go to a baseball game, daddy?”
Distracted with getting the water to the perfect temperature and pouring milky, pear scented bubble bath into the tub, Daniel just makes an affirmative noise of agreement.
“You have a cap already so I can wear it like Mickey did.”
“Uh-huh. Now hop in, kiddo.”
Armand sinks into the bath, bending his long legs and scooting his body down until he can dunk his head under the water. There’s flailing limbs and splashing as he does his usual ‘I’m drowning please save me’ shtick. He gives up soon enough and when he comes up for air Daniel has a hand with a big dollop of shampoo ready to lather into his hair.
“Daddy?”
“Hmm?”
“You said you’d want to think of me if you were dying. Mickey’s dad thought of the baseball game. What would you think of? Which memory? Which is your favorite?”
“Close your eyes. I'm about to rinse.”
Armand does as he’s told and Daniel dumps a cupful of water on his head. Gasping dramatically, Armand spits out the soapy water that gets in his open mouth in an ostentatious spray and rubs at his eyes with his fists in a way that makes him look like a drenched little rabbit.
“Okay, but which memory, daddy?”
Applying conditioner to Armand’s hair, Daniel sighs wearily and soaps up a wash cloth.
“Here, scrub yourself. Don’t forget to wash behind your ears and neck like you always do.”
“I do not…” Armand holds the sopping washcloth in his hand without making any move to start washing and looks solemnly at Daniel from underneath the dripping curtain of his hair. “You seem sad. You didn’t eat either, you just watched me and cried. Am I making you sad?”
How can Daniel explain the way he’s feeling in a way that will make sense to Armand? He‘s currently operating with a child’s black and white way of thinking and Daniel feels like the mixing drum of a cement truck, a heavy grey sludge spinning around inside him. His emotions have been blended together inextricably and for a second, he envies Armand.
He could do with someone untangling the knotted mess of his own feelings for him and explaining it all to him like he’s five but he’ll just have to work through it himself like an adult. Breaking it down into parts and starting with the most important pieces— the ones that have Armand wringing the washcloth anxiously in his hands—Daniel faces his melancholy and guilt head on.
“I meant it when I said I was happy and that was part of why I was crying, but, yeah I am a bit sad.”
“Because of me? You’re sad because of me?” Armand’s voice cracks and he tries to dive under the water again, scared to hear a response that will confirm his fear, but Daniel grabs his arm firmly before he can and shakes him a bit so he’ll look at him.
“No, baby. It’s not because of you.”
“But you’re sad because we killed Mickey’s dad and we only killed him because of the cake- because I like Minecraft and-“
“Hey, no. Listen to me,” Daniel says, he has Armand’s chin clamped in between his thumb and index finger, forcing Armand to meet his eye.
“We killed him because that’s what we do. You were hungry and now you’re not, right?”
“Nope, my tummy is all round and full,” Armand answers and pokes his turgid belly.
“Good. That’s how it should be and I’ll make sure it always is. And I’m not ‘ sad,’ I’m just- well, I guess the easiest way to describe it is that sometimes I get a sort of not nice feeling when we have to take someone away from the people who love them. I know you like to eat bad guys instead of good guys but that doesn’t always mean I still don’t get that feeling. But it also doesn’t mean I’m sad because of you or that I think it’s your fault. You understand me?”
Armand nods as best he can with his chin held hostage. He taps Daniel on the wrist so he can be released and say his piece.
“I understand, daddy. It’s like when I choose the stuffies I have to put on the floor and which ones I let sleep on the bed with me. If I put some on the floor I feel sad for them because they aren’t with their friends anymore but I move them because I need room to lie down so I have to do it. You feel sad but Mickey’s dad is on the floor so I can sleep in the bed with you.”
That’s a cute and surprisingly accurate simplification of Daniel’s guilt. It makes Daniel smile genuinely and laugh at himself for getting consoled by his companion who’s sitting in a precariously full bubble bath while his brightly colored plastic bath toys bob and coast in the water around him. Daniel wraps his hand around the back of Armand’s damp, sudsy neck and pulls him close so their foreheads are touching.
“Exactly. That’s my smart cookie.”
Armand makes a bubbly sounding laugh in the back of his throat and rubs his nose playfully against Daniel’s.
“If I’m your cookie, I can’t be in the bath! I’ll get wet and become smushy!” He starts to try and get up but Daniel is quicker.
“Don’t think so, kiddo,” Daniel says, shoving Armand back down with a strong press on his shoulder. “You’ve still got conditioner in your hair and you haven’t washed your body yet. You won’t get soggy and disintegrate on me if you stop stalling and get to scrubbing.”
They work as a team, Daniel rinsing the conditioner out and Armand washing himself with the cloth until all the dried blood that was stuck to his skin is swirling down the drain.
Once Armand rises out of the tub, Daniel bundles him in a big fluffy towel and has him standing facing the fogged mirror while Daniel runs a comb through his silky curls. He’s impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet and reaching his arm out in front of him to draw little doodles on the glass, mumbling things that are incomprehensible to Daniel.
The moment is so slow and sweet it seems to be stretching out like taffy. Everything feels as if it’s been drenched in a thick coat of syrup, weighing it down and when the sugar hardens, anchoring it still in time. Daniel wants to press himself against Armand’s body before that happens. He wants to be preserved with him in a shell that separates them from the rest of the world. He could live the entirety of his eternal life stuck, suspended forever in this moment and be satisfied. He could wrestle with mortality, come out the loser, and die happy in it.
“Kid.”
“Yes?”
“This is the one.”
Armand doesn’t turn his head but looks at him through a portion of the mirror that has been wiped clear of condensation. “The one of what, daddy?”
“You asked me what memory of you I’d like to think of as I’m dying and it’s this one.”
“Really?” He says it so incredulously that Daniel starts to feel a bit self-conscious about his choice. Maybe Armand thinks there’s some other moment that’s more important and Daniel has just overlooked and disregarded it.
“Well, yeah? You look adorable; glowing and smelling all nice. Why shouldn’t I pick this as the last thing I think about when I die?”
“But I always look adorable and smell nice?”
“Okay, jeez. I didn’t know I was talking to one of those chocolate scented teddy bears. I thought I was talking to my kid.”
“I want one of those bears!” Armand exclaims.
“Yeah, I know you do. You gotta wait for Valentine’s Day like I told you. Anyway, what would your pick be then, since you’re apparently the sole holder of good sentimental opinions here?”
“The time you took me camping! Remember, you were scared to sleep outside even though you’d be in the ground so you made me put my tent over you? When you came out of the dirt you had so many cool bugs and worms for me. We went into the pond so you could take a bath and when I was playing that giant waterbug bit my big piggie and I cried really hard but you took it off me and kissed the booboo better. Remember that?”
“Of course I do. We had a lot of fun. Plus, how could I forget when you trapped that waterbug in a jar and kept shaking it every time you remembered how mad you were at it for hurting you?”
Armand must be reliving the bite now and feeling the anger as if the pain was fresh and stinging in his toe because he’s gritting his teeth and clenching his fists, angrily rattling them. “It hurt! So bad! I hated that bug.”
Daniel tucks a lock of Armand’s hair behind his ear and kisses the soft shell of it to soothe him. “I know, baby. That was a good memory and a good choice. Now, PJs and wind down time. Daddy’s going to get rid of Mark and then when I get back, we’ll go to bed.”
“But I’m not tired! I don’t want to wind down!” Armand whines as he goes into the bedroom anyway and picks out one of Daniel’s larger t-shirts and his own underwear and yanks them on with a huff.
“Don’t care,” Daniel snarks, “Bum-fuck, Conneticut is about a three hour round trip. That, plus disposal time, and you’re looking at closer to five so you have plenty of time to tire yourself out. I’ll hurry but be good while I’m gone and don’t start any fires or cook up a new plague or jump on the bed.”
Armand smirks and looks sidelong at the bed with deviously squinted eyes, no doubt planning to do just that the second Daniel is out of earshot.
“I mean it, kid. You better not jump on the bed.”
“I won’t! Bye, bye, daddy.” He walks into the living room without looking back at Daniel or giving him a hug, way too eager to be left alone when usually Armand is clinging on to his ankle, begging him not to go while Daniel drags him around the apartment before prying his claws out of his tendon. He had done that earlier that night before Daniel went to find their victim.
Armand is clearly up to no good but Daniel is in a race against the sun so he gathers Mark’s body and any evidence that he was ever in their apartment, namely Armand's blood stained pajamas, and stuffs it all in one of the tour cases he stole while on the road with Lestat. He leaves to the sound of Armand frenziedly popping the dice on their game of Trouble .
Whatever, as long as it keeps Armand himself out of trouble, he can sit and pop that plastic dome to his little heart’s content.
Kid potentially wreaking havoc at home or not, the clean up and covering their tracks part of feeding on humans is always a laborious and tedious pain in the ass.
Gone are the days when you could move around and dispose of bodies without a trace. They all carry Big Brother with them in their pockets and walk the streets under the red dot of his omnipresent eye. He’s on video in the grocery store talking to Mark and the route to his apartment is probably lined with a network of police surveillance cameras but if it’s not, then the age of paranoia has ensured their movements activated the automated recording function on at least a dozen personal home security systems along the way.
Luckily, Armand is good at keeping the heat off them if something like this ever happens, where the proof of their involvement is stacked against them so high that their only option is a large scale mind and security tape wipe. So all Daniel has to worry about is getting rid of the body and other physical evidence and he’ll trust Armand to handle the process of vaporizing Mark into an unperson when the time inevitably comes.
Daniel ruminates on the concept of becoming suddenly and completely nonexistent as he folds the back seats of his Land Rover down and loads the case in through the trunk.
Once he’s out of the city, he speeds down the desolate roads of rural New York that eventually cross into Connecticut. With the headlights turned off, the black car glides camouflaged through the darkness, leaving the still, engulfing void undisturbed in its wake. Daniel drives until he sees a stretch of forest that looks dense and not likely to be used for hiking. Pulling off to the side of the road, he makes quick work of carrying the case and a shovel to an area within the thick expanse of trees with just enough of a clearing to allow him to dig a grave. Mark and the pajamas get tossed in and Daniel sets them ablaze. Unlike the mind and cloud gift which are pithering or absent in their development, his talent with the fire gift is a precocious one that came roaring out of him fully reared.
As the fire eats away at Mark’s body, charred bits of flesh pop away from muscle and float above the wavering flames in a miniature aerial light show. Daniel watches the body burn until it’s curled and blackened into unrecognition–looking more akin to jerky than anything that could have once been human– in an unfocused, derealized way as if he has become weightless and caught air to join the dancing sprites of skin and ember. From above, the grave glows harshly, illuminating the forest around it as if he’d dug through the earth and cracked open a gateway to hell, Mark in the middle like an offering waiting to be accepted and dragged further down.
The thought that he’s spent far longer doing this than he was supposed to is what spurs him back into action. He heaves the mound of dirt back into the pit, cutting off the inferno’s oxygen supply and burying the remains.
He’s feeling the consequences of his decision not to eat as the lack of blood exaggerates the aftereffects of physical exertion. It’s nowhere near a human level of exhaustion but Daniel still feels sluggish as he lugs the case back to the car and heads home, sighing when he remembers he could be walking into an apartment that looks like a toy store that had been hit by a small, isolated tornado.
By the time Daniel pulls into the underground parking garage next to their apartment building, the inky black out curtain in the sky has lifted and in its place, a sheer, gossamer veil of indigo hangs on top of the thin strip of sunlight that outlines the horizon. It’s a close call and he’s dragging his feet up the stairs and struggling to get his key in the lock, his hands feeling overly large and clunky.
He opens the door and is met with…nothing.
Everything is just as it was when he left it, save for the open box of Trouble and its board and pieces being scattered across the coffee table. There are no upturned couches, broken lamps, or explosions of mysterious liquid concoctions painting the kitchen. And that’s what’s weird. Armand was wired and “fizzy” when Daniel had walked out of the apartment. Daniel should have been bombarded with a carnival of sound and mess and then the feeling of barely contained rage, the hallmark emotion of a tired parent who just wants to go to sleep but has to wrangle their unruly kid to bed before they can. Instead of all of that, there is just the empty apartment. The air is still and free from agitation and there is no sign of Armand. Anxiety grips his previously fatigued body with stony hands and shakes it awake.
Did Armand leave? If he did, Daniel won’t be able to go out and look for him. Armand is vulnerable like this. He doesn’t know how to navigate the city or ride the subway on his own. He doesn’t have his phone or money and he won’t use his powers if he needs something either. His immunity to the sun isn’t as perdurable as Armand would have him believe. Daniel has seen him with angry, irritated patches of skin on his hands, face, and scalp when he stayed out in direct sunlight for too long back when Daniel was still human. Armand had pushed past his limitations to spend more time with him than his nature would allow and willingly paid the price for it. Depending on if Armand had put on pants before he left, almost his entire body could potentially be exposed to excruciating burns.
Daniel feels caged and helpless. His kid is out wandering the streets in danger because of him. Again . He has failed again .
Alternating waves of prickling heat that leave him feeling covered in a layer of sweat and bone chilling coldness wash over him. He can’t hear anything besides the blood rushing in his ears but then, out of nowhere, like a rock rising out of the water to break up the current,
“Boo!!!”
Daniel whirls around so he’s facing the door and looks up to his right to see Armand against the ceiling, crowded into the shadow-covered corner.
There’s that rage.
“You scared the goddamn fucking shit out of me!”
Armand’s mouth falls open before he covers it with his fist and laughs.
“So many bad words, Daddy! And I know you were scared. Your heart was going thump very fast so I said ‘Boo!’ to make it go faster.”
Daniel is unamused by Armand’s puckish antics, though he’s relieved that he hadn’t wandered out of the apartment. He is safe and Daniel can breathe again.
“Get down. Right now. It’s time for bed and I’m not in the mood.”
“Nuh-uh! Not sleepy! You have to catch me!”
The wall rattles slightly when Armand launches himself off it and into the opposite wall that the TV stand and bookshelves are pushed against. Taking a closer look at the other walls, Daniel finds them covered with small indents where the heels of Armand’s feet and palms had crushed the plaster on impact. This must have been Armand’s chosen method of releasing his energy– or “going boom,” to use his words. He was pinging off the walls in the literal sense, a frenetic little pinball that broke out of the machine. It could have been way worse and Armand will enjoy filling the dents with putty later and having an excuse to repaint but in Daniel’s drained state the damage just makes him feel snappish.
“You know I can’t. Come down. I’m dead on my feet here. Don’t make me start counting.”
Daniel orders and reaches down to undo his belt buckle to show Armand that he means business.
At the jingling sound, Armand perks up from where he’s squeezed himself in between the top of the bookshelf and the ceiling. He bumps his head and a flurry of dust rains down on him. Particles settle on his tongue when he sticks it out at Daniel and he makes a disgruntled face before saying, “Do it! I can count too!”
“One…” Daniel counts and draws out the pause after the word to give Armand more time to obey.
He still doesn’t budge so Daniel starts slowly pulling his belt out of the loops. Armand watches, bright eyed and entranced by the strip of leather that grows like a magician’s scarf as the length of it is pulled and freed by Daniel’s hand. The belt is fully out and Daniel holds it folded in half, slapping it against his open palm.
“T-”
“Two!” Armand beats him to it, looking smug and defiant.
From his perch, Armand starts vibrating and shaking his behind, like he’s about to pounce and knock Daniel flat on his back.
“You're really trying to be cute with me but I’m not messing around, kid. Th-”
“Three!” Armand shouts and shoots across the living room and down into the couch where he grabs his black stuffed cat by its tail before darting off.
Armand barrels down the hallway, squealing, “Kiddie! He’s going to spank me!” with giddy breathlessness.
He blows open the door to his room and catapults himself into the full sized bed. Daniel can hear him panting and wriggling around underneath the duvet, politely asking his stuffed animals if they wouldn’t mind helping him hide because his dad is coming to find him and he’s very, very mad.
It’s all incredibly endearing and causes Daniel’s annoyance to fizzle out, taking the resulting second wind of energy along with it. He feels like he could drop to the ground and into a stupor at any second so he gives up the gun and tosses his belt in the direction of the couch, dragging his feet to see how well Armand managed to conceal himself among his plushies.
Pretty well, is the answer. He is balled up near the headboard where the mountain of plushies is in highest concentration. Animals and other random stuffed characters and objects surround him so the only part of him that is visible are his eyes which go wide when they meet Daniel’s and then squeeze shut as if that will prevent Daniel from being able to see him.
Daniel lifts up the butter yellow elephant that covers the bottom half of Armand’s face to reveal his pouty little mouth twisted into a scowl.
“Ugh, you found me.”
“Hey, you made a good effort but you should know by now that I’ll always find you. I’d turn over every stone until I find the one with you squirming under it, little bug.”
“I guess so. That’s why I don’t like to play hide and seek with you. You never give up and let me win.”
“Daddy’s too good at it, huh? Well scooch over, I'm too tired to play right now anyway.”
Armand moves to the edge of the mattress and Daniel lies down, positioning one of the bigger Squishmallows so he can get comfortable. Once Daniel is settled, Armand scoots closer to him and in a drawn-out, petulant tone says, “But I’m still not sleepy! Where is your belt, hmmm? Aren’t you going to punish me, dad?”
Daniel pats the top of Armand’s head placatingly. The crown of hair is soft and smells sweet and faintly powdery like the warm fur of a kitten. It’s the tactile equivalent of a mug of chamomile tea with a generous splash of whiskey or the comforting rush of heroin coursing through his veins.
“Tomorrow, if you still want it,” He slurs and lets his drooping eyelids close all the way.
“I want to play computer! I know the password and I’ll go play by myself if you don’t get up.”
There are insistent fingers poking at his face and playing with the loose skin around his neck but unfortunately the sun’s hold over Daniel’s body is greater than Armand’s hold over his heart and he can’t fight against the strength of its pull any longer.
“I’m going! I’m going to play big kid games on Roblox and talk to big kids who are mean to me without you there to protect me and say mean things back.”
When he warns Armand that he better not use his computer unless he wants to find out how mean Daddy can be with his belt, he is so far gone that he doesn’t know if the words leave his mouth or if they stay within the closed off confines of his mind.
The last thing Daniel registers before slipping into unconsciousness is the bed creaking as Armand climbs out of it, the almost imperceptible weight of a plushie being placed on his chest and Armand whispering, “Keep daddy safe, Kiddie. It’s your job while I’m gone.”