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Chapter Text

Daniel Molloy must be a fucking idiot, or maybe the bravest man to ever live; facing down a real full-flesh vampire is no joke. Especially when the said vampire is a rugged-looking, sneering Armand dressed tattered clothes.

He has you in a choke-hold, watching as the color slowly drains from your face. You don't even know how he singled you out, even more, how you ended up in fucking France! You hadn't touched any weird stones to get Outlandered, no portals and doorways for it to be most magic systems, and this in fact could be or not be a dream, but you don't want to find that out by dying. So the isekaied villainess approach is what you decide.

The fact is that it is the younger and freshly traumatized Armand speaking to you. You know little of his backstory, children of darkness and whatnot, but you know that there is one thing that could save you from his wrath(though maybe not suspicion). So you get a hold of yourself and manage to choke out a name with your last breath,

"Marius de Romanus-" You barely manage as Armand tenses, constricting your airways further. He throws you back then, looms over you as you try catching your breath in the mud.

It had started raining, you hadn't noticed; the irony.

He speaks then, his voice raspy, matching the roughened exterior. "Qui es-tu pour prononcer son nom, mortel?" [Who are you to speak his name, mortal?]

Ah, shit. You had not considered you'd have to speak fucking French. Would pre-theatre Armand even deign to learn English?

You gather whatever broken words you can remember from your collage friends and 'Cabaret,' and with an accent that sounds heavy even to your own ears, you finally bite out "Je suis enchanté, je m'appelle-" [Nice to meet you, my name is-]

He cuts you off, eyes boring into yours, "l' étranger?.. Que sais-tu de mon créateur?" He is menacing, a creature picked from the minds of Shelley and the Grimms. He could be a fae, regal and lean, beautiful and thorny. [Foreigner?.. What do you know of my maker?]

It wouldn't be hard for him to tear your mind apart in the search for answers, like he had done(will do) with Daniel, so you act fast and try to accurately answer with leftover Latin this time, "Marius vivere, Armand." [Marius lives, Armand]

He doesn't seem surprised at your mention of his name, perhaps that recognition is what got you caught in the first place. The other fact though...

He picks you by the scruff of your neck like one would a kitten, expression stormy. You hold your screams as he takes off into the air and above the clouds. The full moon reflects around you, turning them silver. In turn, they illuminate Armand's beautiful graying face, turn the edges of his dark hair copper.

If you didn't know he was at least a hundred something year old vampire, you'd have fainted, but weirdly you trust him, not to drop you at least.

With the air whooshing through your ears and the impenetrable language barrier between the two of you, the few words he speaks are unintelligible to you, "Nous parlerons en privé, mortel, je ne permettrai pas qu'on te fasse du mal jusqu'à ce que tu me parles de Marius." [We shall talk in private, mortal, I will not allow you to be hurt until you speak to me of Marius.]

You have the feeling that 'mortel' refers to you, so right as he lands you on a cliffed coast (which you totally aren't mesmerized by) after a while of floating around, you turn to him, pointing a finger towards yourself, giving him your name.

Not being dignified with a response enrages you, the need prove yourself to one of the most fascinating creatures alive (undead) has you turn your blunted finger in his direction, "Armand," you take a breath and steel your mind from any intrusion; however the fuck that works you don't know, you just loop the chorus of 'Radio Ga-Ga' in your head, "Amadeo, Arun."

Like the repressed wilderness that is Armand, nothing betrays him but his eyes set ablaze. He levels you with a look, "Fais attention à la façon dont tu agis, mortel; mon nom n'a pas touché les lèvres de beaucoup, et encore moins des humains, je ne suis pas au-dessus de contredire ma parole si cela se reproduit." [Be careful how you act, mortal; my name has not touched the lips of many, let alone humans, I am not above contradicting my word if it happens again.]

You don't know what he says, neither do you get a chance to think about it, because the moment he finishes speaking, your head starts ringing viciously. Freddie's voice stops playing in your head and instead you can feel him digging.

You know Armand's Mind Gift is strong, the best in many generations, he could be in and out of your head and you would never notice, even vampires might not, hell, maybe he already has...

But, fuck, shit and tits, he's punishing you and you can't take it!

It makes you fall to your knees, unable to move, wondering what kind of freak Daniel was for Devil's Minion to ever have worked out. Your thoughts follow the path he forges, from the most recent to the best and the worst. With much effort, you pull the brakes when he gets to the 'Odyssey.' It's a little petty, but he's been digging through your head and he deserves to be put in the limbo of recognition and incomprehension. You wonder if he recognizes it, despite the language barrier...

The fucking language barrier!

Of course, you have never once thunk a thought in any of his preferred tongues, he can only glean as much as the similarities of the Indo-European family allow it. You'd have to offer him your fucking blood for him to actually see anything.

So in the euphoric sense of victory, as you successfully manage to backtrack through all twenty years of Ody's journey, you feel around the ground well enough to grab what you feel is a sturdy rock and promptly bash it into your head.

The sudden pain banishes Armand momentarily, he seems shaken.

A delirious laugh escapes you then, practically shaking, you scramble back from him, as though that would protect you.

You can see the gears turning in his head - 'to kill her or make peace? is she worth breaking the great laws for? will I be safe if i let her live?'

But you don't get to stick around long enough to see him actually make a decision. Blood freely dripping down from your forehead into your eyes clouds your vision as the dark fog takes your mind, completely at the mercy of the immortal gremlin.

Chapter Text

You wake up exactly where you passed out, you push back against the bitter disappointment of that realization and move to stand. Armand is nowhere to be seen and the wind flows harshly around the coast.

It's a particularly crisp morning, the air is so thin and cold that it constricts your lungs, but you welcome the pain. It reminds you that you survived, that you can work your way backwards to earth, your family, your time, your life.

It's a miracle you didn't die of hypothermia, perhaps the work of the same gods of luck that saved you from Armand's wrath. Where was he anyway? You can barely remember what he was like before the show's timeline. He courted Lestat; they had an affair; he had something to do with Nicky's death.

He's stuck in his coven, bound by the chains of religion and loneliness, looking for an escape. Lestat, Louis, Daniel. Can't let go and move on, but can't stay either. Will this interaction interrupt the timeline?

Fucker just had to find you and intercept you somehow, didn't he?

You don't remember how you even got to whatever-century Paris! First you were window shopping near your university and boom! your next memory is in the stench-ridden streets of so-and-so.

Of course, you recognized French, you just didn't speak the damn language. One realization brought the other and before you got mugged or beaten up in whatever slum you were in, you quickly joined the crowd.

(Time-travel wasn't ever on your bucket-list, but it did bring some satisfaction to know that Hawking was a fraud.)

Armand floated into your head naturally, as did the entirety of season two, but he must have registered his name, echoed in your head over and over again (until it was pounding his brain like a hammer).

No, this is no time for jokes.

You're in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, just the cliff you're standing on, the sea and your head that seems to have stopped bleeding for now.

You march through the muddied grass like you're Lizzy fucking Bennett. The worm of worry inside you is gnawing relentlessly, about your fate and unsurprisingly, the fate of the dumbass vampires you saw on screen.

Why had you been sent in this hellscape of a universe anyway? The rules feel impenetrable and the covens - looming. At least 'The Vampire Diaries' had multiple aces you could use to your advantage. Here, you are practically defenseless.

Can you contact the Talamasca? No, that isn't reliable whatsoever, what if you become a living, breathing guinea pig? Or worse, a subject of ridicule!

But Armand's even less reliable, especially given your inability to be Louis, or Daniel, or Lestat. Fuck!

It nags at you, your purposelessness... Though, you were never much for predestined journeys and religion, and the absurdist way of giving life your own meaning is rather appealing. Your question seems to have a very very simple answer; to save somebody.

Which one of the miserable fucks it is, you don't know yet, but the choice should be rather obvious, it is to make sure Claudia can live out a full life(or undeath).

Her death is (will be) a core event that causes, well, everything - the interview, rockstar lestat, probably whatever convergence of vampires they need to interfere with too...

How the hell will you manage that, though? You don't(!!) want to be an Anne Rice vampire, being frozen in a single moment of your entire life sounds miserable and tedious. But then, you could always tough it out and just go out in the sun after you've done it. It's not like you'll get to tastes the foods you like before dying here anyway. A friendship with Armand sounds impossible, but...

Would you be able to contact Lestat?

How would you manage that, was he even born yet? If only you weren't lost in time and space like a fucking 'Doctor Who' gag...

Armand has taken you to abandoned countryside(?) N, clearly expecting you to die, therefore abiding by his precious great laws; in short, you are fucked.

You notice that, despite the field seeming timeless your legs ache and the sky is growing dark. You think of the chance that you might become a nice snack for whatever is out there, but as your mediocre luck would have it, there is a cabin up ahead, a totally innocent one-story building made out of wood and stone.

Were you still in the 21st century, you'd abide by the unwritten rules of horror and keep a 100 meter distance, but you're cold and hungry and your untested modern body is in need of a proper bed.

Maybe some French shepherd had said goodbye to society and holed up here with a gentle giant of a dog and a small herd of livestock?

You survive your short hike, noticing no stench of excrement that follows farm animals, nor any eaten grass or a small farm for herbs. The front porch of the house seems well-kept, practically screaming 'hey come inside, I'm totally not a creepy cabin.'

You knock, as any polite person does when they don't want to be the dinner, and when there isn't a response you carefully step inside.

The door gives zero resistance and the cabin is clean as can be, given that it's a pre-windex world. That's strikes two and three. You feel like Goldie Locks, except with imminent pneumonia and a life-or-death stakes situation.

Looking around, you find the single most important information(barring perhaps the encounter with Armand) you have come across since ending up in this tomfoolery of a situation. On the wooden table, there is a suspiciously well placed paper, which reads in bold letters 'Journal de Paris.' And right below is a lifeline of a sentence you've been waiting for since you got here 'Samedi 15 Mai 1791, de la Lune le 13.' You almost whoop and cry in joy.

Casting the fishiness of the situation aside, you curl up on the weirdly comfortable double bed and begin skimming, as odd as it might be that a Parisian newspaper ended up in the outskirts(?) of the country(it was on the coast after all?), you are not in the mood to look a gift horse in the mouth.

While planning and dissecting the information, sleep overtakes your body and you easily pass out, instinctively folding the paper under the pillow and wrapping the covers around you.

What you don't seem to notice the entire time though is crimson eyes, almost alight in the dark, watching you from a distance. Because if you did, you'd have made a killer joke about tracking the hobbits down with elven eyes.

Chapter Text

The weeks you spend at the cabin are morbidly peaceful, you keep it clean as food and clothes continue to appear on their own, as the waste and trash are discarded. They come in abundance and inelegance, brought by someone with money to waste but no personal taste of their own.

The identity of your supposed benefactor is obvious, but you don't dare show any panic or break from the routine. If he wants you as a lab rat and not a toy, well one fate is preferable to the other.

But you eventually do slip, whether that is a curse or a blessing to your beyond anxious brain, no god can tell.

By the end of the first week, all you have to show for your nervousness are thoroughly bitten nails and dark under-eyes. You may not sleep well but it does help you avoid interactions with him to pass out early.

The rest of it is just simple chores, living that cottage-core lifestyle and stewing in boredom or loneliness, whichever comes knocking first. Not that you have much space to innovate with the food, you don't know how to prepare a sourdough starter and the fresh ingredients never seem to include anything other than salt and vegetables.

The isolation has you reconsidering the initial option of death and return to earth.1, the utter silence drives you mad. The routine you've come to cling to becomes suffocating, but you don't try. As any other human, you dislike pain and going out of your way to cut or tie a rope is just as much of a chore as cleaning this cabin has become.

He's actually cruel enough to bring you the books you can't read, the first one being the 'Odyssey,' cheeky fucking gremlin. What follows are mostly indistinguishable titles, not responding to your memory, with the exception of the occasional Machiavelli and Alighieri. It has an uncanny feeling, being just beyond comprehension, perhaps as you are to him.

It is by the third month that your patience cracks, along with the plates and cups in your hand. You rot away on your bed, day and night, not caring for yourself or anything else.

Bathing and basic hygiene are forgotten, the only reason you don't literally smell like shit is because the godforsaken cabin has a toilet shack. A week after, you carve a waxing moon on its door and barely hold back from tearing out the book pages and using them as toilet paper.

You nearly convince yourself to eat a layer of raw onion, just for the heck of it, snorting like a dumbass.

The world's softest beigest pillow is slowly pushing down on you, and really, you kind of understand Louis' need to get coked up and give a rage-bait interview about his ex.

Armand doesn't respond to your bleeding and infected fingertips, nor the lack of use of the water he diligently replenishes every night. He brings papers and graphite instead, like a neglectful owner trying to find a new stimuli for their dog.

And like a particularly stubborn shadow, he vanishes when the lights of your eyes try to reach him.

So you do what nobody has done since he parted from his maker, you put his likeness onto the paper.

He looks slightly different to Assad, from what you remember after the surprisingly brief encounter. Despite the dirt and the discoloration from the lack of blood, the youthfulness of his face isn't lost, nor the childish innocence of his doe eyes. But the most striking thing, one that keeps drawing your attention, is the shade of auburn that his umber hair gains in the glistening moonlight.

When finished with drawing the not-particularly-masterful portrait of him, you are struck with the need to depict those red hues. Given the lack of materials and the extremely sorry state of your hands, the resolution seems rather obvious. Pulling out a stuck shard from your index, you reopen the wound and carefully spread the blood at the highlights.

Unfortunately, strained by the use, the rest of the half-healed indents start leaking blood and pus as well. You blanch at the sight, but add a finishing touch nonetheless; the blood moon shines from behind him and right beside it is a single word, clumsily written - 'Thanatos.'

Afterwards, you lazily move to the floor, place a cold bucket of fresh water on your lap, submerging your hands in it, and promptly proceed to pass out.

Time flows by as you swim between waking and sleep, vaguely, you register the sun going down, it's rays slowly passing along your face, momentarily brightening your vision. As the dark returns, you drift right back.

It isn't much longer until you hear an unsettling creak of the door, along with soft footsteps leading to the single table and chair. There's a rustling and then, complete silence.

Your heart gains speed and you know there's no point to burying your head in the sand, so you open your eyes; and see Armand's misted ones staring back at you.

The full moon being the only thing lighting up the room informs you that it's been exactly four moon cycles since he'd dropped you there, stewing in your helplessness and discomfort.

Anger blinds you to his red tears, casting off any high regard you'd had for him before this. But you don't scream or yell, only strengthen in your resolve to save Claudia from these shitty vampires and their grubby paws.

Armand stands still, breathing in the scent of blood and cellular decay in the room, his expression half-moved, half-apocalyptic. Finally, he moves towards you, speaking into your mind, eyes wide open and shaking, "C'est comme ça que tes yeux me voient, ma fille? Suis-je belle et difforme?" [Is that how your eyes see me, girl? Am I so beautiful and deformed?]

The response is lost on you, no way to tell what he's saying, no way to get him to understand anything. But it does mellow you out, the light whisper, the barely tamed desperation. This is the boy-man starved to escape the miasma of his coven, but afraid of seclusion.

And you've practically told him 'I see you' for the two singular times you'd interacted. Extremely foolish, obviously, but something you couldn't- can't help. What has taken a hold of you isn't pity, not really, but the feeling of commiseration, of being stuck, no matter the fact that it is him indirectly keeping you captive.

So instead of answering, you take your pruned appendage out of the water, offering a sip, "un petit coup."

He's startled, but doesn't hesitate, biting into the same gash that painted crimson into his hair.

The memory that Armand's little drink teases out is no memory at all, but a vision, one given to you on a random night in the scarce escape of your dreams; him and you, in the radiant streets of modern Tokyo, walking in tandem, arms linked like old buddies, you are pointing towards a billboard of Jun Matsumoto of all people, and animatedly explaining something as he rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

Your reluctance and confusion are reflected on his own face. Why, of all the weird things you'd dreamed, had he pulled that one? An odd coincidence, or maybe a sight he needed to see and one your brain freely offered up.

It has resonated, clearly, Armand is a creature who craves companionship and freedom, and he'd just glimpsed at the golden ticket to achieving both.

This might be the first semblance of the guarantee that he won't discard of you and you cling to it; because, despite everything, Armand remains the uniquely familiar presence in the alien world you've found yourself in.

This time, when he grabs you, there is no struggle, perhaps also for the lack of strength left in your body. You catch a sight of your reflection in the water, and even in the faint image, your complexion seems sallow. No shit you feel weak then.

The cabin disappears out of sight, but your sigh of relief doesn't come until the mixed scent of shit and piss hit your senses. Nothing like the stink of backstreets to make Paris feel like home.

Chapter Text

Armand is considerate enough to drop you off right back in the capital, near a sign that reads Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, which, much to your dismay, tells you nothing.

He's kinder with his strength this time around, placing you upright on the pavement, his perpetually sad eyes boring into yours once more, "Nous parlerons encore une fois, ma fille. Jusqu'à ce moment-là, trouve ton chemin jusqu'ici, ensuite je retrouverai mon chemin vers toi. Be safe." [We'll talk again, girl. Until then, find your way here, then I will find my way to you. (Be safe.)]

His last words of broken English strike you, deepening the pit of longing you've had since arriving here. He must be going back to the coven, of course, their master couldn't run around forever playing cat and mouse with a human.

Just as he turns around, you whisper, "au revoir, maitre." The sheer stupidity of that line isn't lost on you, but you're terribly scared that if he leaves, he'll disappear.

The word doesn't seem to register at first, but he halts, looks back, the gremlin replacing the good nurse, sending a warning, and then he leaves anyway.

So you are left in the middle of Paris, once again, with nowhere to go, nothing to do, and autumn right on the doorstep. Amazing; thank you so much for nothing, Armand!

You find yourself looking for a job almost immediately, while Armand's clothes still look new and you haven't absorbed the stench of the city. There aren't many options, with all the revolutions happening in the country recently. Any semblance of interaction ends whenever people hear English with a few words of their native tongue absolutely butchered.

Frustration and desperation overwhelm you all at once, made worse by the fact that your menstruation, late by two months, drains you faster than any vampire could. With the lack of sanitary products, you are forced to use the same bundle of cloth you scavenged from the petticoat (of all things he could have bought for you) you wore under your dress.

So without much fanfare, a few days after Armand has left, you are hovering on a railing above the Seine, staring blankly at the water. The clouds dim any light that may have come from the sky.

The dirt on your body makes your skin crawl, the unfamiliarity of the country leaves you lonely, body and soul, and the departure of Armand has you thinking that you might have conjured everything that happened in your mind. It wouldn't be the first time your dreams had escaped you. Everything that had happened could be explained away, including his very existence, as a way to cope. It could be one of your clouded memories that nobody else fucking seemed to remember.

If only there was music, a way to ground yourself, be it the Y2K or 2020s, to turn off the brain for even a second. Alas, you have no earthly possesions to date, no way of navigating the situation and frankly, there is but one way out of this spiral. So, as your conscious has known since you first saw the brazen bull in a movie, better purification by water than flames.

Dramatically, you turn your back to the river and hum a familiar tune you can’t seem to remember the origin of and finally, let go, arching up like you're Anthy fucking Himemiya.

Just as you're about to fall, a firm hand catches yours, pulling you into a plush embrace. It holds you as you kick and scream, extending your body towards the water, but it won't let go. The worst thing might be that it reminds you of your mother's hugs, all maternal strength and softness.

The person runs their fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp slowly; you finally break down, consciously repressed fear and anxiety hitting you like a bus. The wailing is smothered by fabric, dampened by tears. There are incoherent platitudes being whispered in what you can only assume is French.

The voice very obviously belongs to a woman, gratefulness and disdain towards her battle each other in your heart. She’s saved you, though very much for naught. Even if it didn’t end now, it’ll be in the hands of a revolutionary you pissed off by hallucinating D’artagnan. Your brain has been messing with you by trying to make coherence of the situation and it wasn’t even succeeding in that. The situation is, logically speaking, fucking hopeless.

But she smells like freshly fermented cheese and grilled onions, and it feels so guttingly real, albeit quite delicious as well given the condition of your starved stomach.

She holds you until daybreak, and probably would have continued to do so had you not looked up. Such a plain face and yet, the genuine warmth and care it exudes feels like a slap. She’s not her, could never be, none of the features seem to match except the tenderness of their eyes, after all, empirically, your mother is the most beautiful woman in the world; but the treacherous word still escapes you, “mom?”

The woman knows instantly what you mean and the way her heart drops is almost comically visible, oh how sweet a stranger’s kindness can taste. She runs her hand along your arm, as if to warm you up and carefully inquires, “Avez-vous une maison où retourner, ma chère?” [Do you have a house to return to, my dear?]

The endearment, only comprehensible part of the speech, sounds like Vivaldi to the ears, though you cannot bask in the fuzziness of it for too long, as the lady watches you with a concerned face, “Désolée, no- No parler français.” [Sorry, no- No speaking French.]

She shivers a bit at the thick English pronunciation, though doesn’t indicate any further distaste. Instead, the woman asks for your name, through speech as well as gestures, and introduces herself as Alma du Pont, and really, you may not have seen that one coming, but fate does have an acute sense of humor.

Alma raises you up and takes you to what you can only assume is her home, where she introduces her husband(?) Jacques, leaving a joke about Charles Dickens to stew in the back of your throat.

There seems to be nobody else in the home, which is why you find it odd when you wind up staying the night in a well lit room, the personality of which indicates being owned by proper lady. Nevertheless, they could be serial killers for all you care, let them kill you in the comfort of a cushy bed and a scent of fresh linen, let them eat your now putrefied flesh.

Chapter Text

Getting used to a life out of the bounds of time is frustrating. No electricity, no internet for easy distractions, your brain feels under-stimulated, which almost immediately worsens your nail-biting habit. Alma is appalled, her face scrunching up each time she sees your hands, and you're almost sure she's threatening to hold them inside a bucket of vodka until you behave.

For what it's worth, she does manage to snag you a few books in English, though the titles are a little concerning, ranging from '10 Ways to Catch a Runaway Bride' to 'The Duke's Velvet Secret,' neither of which are very promising. They are as entertaining as they are nonsensical. The most important of the books though, is a dictionary, dated, but usable for everyday.

Alma and Jacques welcome you into their little family and the pub that her family has been running for generations. It's rustic and extremely charming, by the time the end of October rolls around, 'winter is coming' dances at the tip of your tongue.

You come to learn that Alma is the cook, Jacques is the baker and the book-keeper, and once they mentioned Celine, which you assume at this point is the obviously dead daughter whose shoes you're filling, seems that she used to be the heart of the restaurant, jack of all trades, etc. etc.

So the dutiful impostor that you are, you emulate her likeness, it gets easier as you're given the access to her wardrobe and other belongings. Your French may be on the levels of 'Emily in Paris,' but the indomitable human spirit moves you forward; further into the embrace of a kind couple, desperate for a child. It disgusts you, some nights, when you get caught up in your compulsions; however, when the morning fills you stomach with sourdough and fresh butter, the same bad thoughts vanish like insects.

One day, they sit you down, given you a letter, Alma's shaky handwriting standing out immediately, though it has an uncanny feeling. Just as your heart races in the fear of being found out, your selfishness becoming obvious to them, Jacques starts reciting a practiced speech. He looks as tired as your father did after an early morning followed by a late night, it's even more painful, hearing their rejection, veiled to you by the constraints of language, all while they look more paternal than they ever have.

Your head falls down, hoping for the slowly accumulating tears to remain unseen, you focus on the letter, realizing for the first time since you've held it, that it's legible, English, and as Jacques hits a familiar word, you read along as he speaks,

"...haven't had this much warmth since she went. We know it is self-absorbed of us, begging for your stay here, but if you would just consider it, that would mean a great deal to us, my girl."

The tears don't dry, instead growing in numbers, dripping onto the paper and smudging the edges of ink. You don't get time to recollect yourself as Alma hands you your dictionary, which you had not noticed the loss of till she held it out; by then it clicks, their dark under-eyes, pale faces.

They had stayed up all night writing a letter you'd understand and reciting it till they could relay it word by word. Parisian lower class couple, who probably hadn't had access to writing or literature beyond fourth grade, not only had they been building you a library, but also a home; your sweet Monsieur Jac et Mademoiselle Mimi.

And now they are giving you time to write your own response, spend a night thinking it over to make sure, as if you could regret that. You feel Alma's possessive hand enclosing yours for a moment, not wanting to give you over to the people, who, in her eyes, had abandoned you. Little does she know there are no other people, no alternative. She glances at her husband once, him returning a look of determination, and then she leaves you to it.

The letter you place at their door the same night reads like this,

"Chers Jac et Mimi,
Il y a tant de choses que je pourrais dire, mais je ne peux pas. Alors, s'il vous plaît, laissez-moi plutôt vous supplier de rester à vos côtés. Laissez-moi vous rendre l'amour que vous m'avez témoigné lorsque j'étais un étranger solitaire.
Avec amour, ta fille."

[Dear Jac and Mimi,
There are so many things I want to say, but I cannot. So please, let me instead beg you to stay by your side. Let me give you back the love you showed me when I was a lonely stranger
With love, your girl.]

It soon disappears into there room, where you hear sobs and soft voices, until the couple eventually emerges to kiss your teary eyes and hold you close to their hearts.

In return, you eagerly take as much work off their hands as you can, learning to roast the marrow, caress the dough and put food in the ungrateful mouths of your customers, all while resisting the urge of auto-cannibalism due to the scent of food your skin takes in, essence of garlic and meat never separating from the nail-beds.

The winter does in fact arrive before you even have the time to realize.

"Le dernier [group]- groupe a laissé un gros pourboire, madam Mimi," you tell your hostess with the chirpy customer voice you still haven't shaken. The words are no longer so thick and cluncky with enough practice, you almost feel proud until you hear a snort coming from the table beside you. [The last (group, already in english)- group left a big tip, Mrs. Mimi]

There's a dark haired bastard sniggering to himself, very obviously looking in your direction, clearly drunk out of his mind. He deserves to get his ass kicked out in the middle of the incoming snowstorm. But he's a paying customer and you are nothing if not an exceptional host.

You let it slide, starting to clean away the abandoned table, but the irk burns dully at the back of your head. Even as your hand itches to put a knife through him, a polite smile continues to play on your face.

Eventually, after painstakingly long hours, the clock hits midnight, the guests start clearing out one by one, though unfortunately, that the bastard and his friend remain, deep in their cups.

After finishing another table next to them, you notice an instrument case next to the dark haired man, an idea mischievously floating into your head as you draw near him, "Quel bel instrument vous avez là, monsieur," you manage in the saccharine voice and this time, miraculously, he doesn't laugh, intrigue painting his features in the stead of mean humor, "pourrais-je vous demander de nous jouer un air avant de partir?" [What a beautiful instrument you have there, sir, could I ask you to play us a tune before leaving?]

The man doesn't seem too shocked, you half expect him to carelessly whip out whatever he has and slur away on it, finally ending this treacherous night in defeat and embarrassment. Instead he softly asks, "es-tu sûr?" waiting for you to nod. [Are you sure?]

He pulls out a violin, speaking to the green beast inside you that's always wished to master the particular elegance of it's music, and as he begins playing, for a moment, rest of the world falls away. This man, crude and brash, brings you to tears with the whine of the delicate strings.

Chapter Text

The violinist's last chords drown out your sorrow by claiming it as his own, mixing with the pain on his face. Before you know it Mimi is clapping like a madwoman, next to her, Jac is unsuccessfully hiding tears behind his palm.

You and the violinist make eye contact for a moment, before he hangs his head with a light chuckle, "je suis désolé, Madame, pour mon impolitesse précédente," and well, when he puts it that way, you do feel a little guilty for trying to take a piss out of him, "je veux bien dire, je te le promets, mon ami et moi ici, nous aimerions vous rendre visite plus souvent, si vous le souhaitez." [I'm sorry, Madam, for my previous rudeness, I mean, I promise you, my friend and I here, we would like to visit you more often, if you wish.]

Chunks of the sentence are lost on you, though it's simple to glean the meaning, "seulement si vous jouez à nouveau pour nous, monsieur." [Only if you play for us again, sir.]

"Nicolas, madame, c'est mon nom." [Nicolas, madam, that's my name.]

You feel a pang in your head, as though his name should mean something, but it comes up blank, you can't remember a fucking Nicolas being turned or properly mentioned no matter how hard you whack your brain.

You'd bet Armand's fucking copy of 'Journal de Paris' currently searing it's place in Celine's desk drawer that you'd just invited someone important, right after you'd tried to humiliate him. Just who in the Jem Carstairs wannabe is he?

But before you can look more closely, Nicolas leaves and you're stuck with the dirty dishes and a sinking feeling in your gut.

Mimi and Jac notice it almost immediately, it's strange how easily they are able to fall back to the habits of parenthood. Letting them do this feels even worse, but the day has left you boneless. Jac promises you a ticket to a savate match tomorrow and quickly sends you off to the bed with a sympathetic smile.

The room still smells like Céline, possibly because you keep using her perfumery like a psychopathic impostor, however you've pavloved yourself into paying it mind.

Her parents notice, you understand, her dresses and scent decorating you, though instead of disgust, you see light enter their eyes when they catch a glimpse of the overcoats no longer left at the mercy of the moths inside the chipped wardrobe. It is the least you can do.

Even now, you take her precious oils and rub them into your hair and hands. The Du Ponts aren't particularly rich, but they haven't spared anything for her. You wonder what happened to Céline, you know little about her personality, only from what you have dared yourself to read in her diaries without having felt like a terrible person.

She would have despised you, is what you know, so you stop thinking about her whatsoever and go back to being her parents' perfect Pinnochio.

Jac lives up to his promise, there's a ticket waiting for you at the table as you and Mimi begin to make breakfast. You thank Jac after he's finished caring for the cattle, it's wordless, a simple pour of milk and a kiss on the cheek, but he smiles his chipped smile anyways.

Now you aren't the biggest fan of boxing, and nobody encourages fair young ladies to participate in or even casually watch sports, but Du Ponts are big fans, so they let you go anyway.

You finish up in the restaurant at about 6 in the evening. You take your sweet time getting ready, pulling a reverse of Achilles; a change of Jac's clothes and tied back hair do what they can to have you be perceived as a boy, the lavender perfume however, does the opposite, you keep it anyway.

So in the manner of any cross-dressing female lead in a historical isekai, you go off into the sunset with no care for a chaperone or a jealous eye.

And well? It's fun. You are drawn to the betting pool almost immediately, put all your money on the boxer inaptly named Muhammad Ali, of all things, absolutely unlike his predecessor (successor?), all lanky limbs and back acne.

You shout and cheer for Muhammad, all in good fun tinged with desperation, and you begin to pointedly ignore the glowing red eyes that keep catching yours. A trick of the light or whatever.

What's even harder to ignore though, is a hand suddenly clapped on your back, Nicolas' bright red face startling you. He grins stupidly and asks who you've bet on.

"Muhammad? Vraiment? Vous êtes courageuse Madame Du Pont!" He seems too friendly, or perhaps it's the alcohol in his system speaking for him. [Muhammad? You are brave Madame Du Pont!]

It seems, the vodka and rum in yours rise to the challenge of superior stupidity, given that you're already laughing before the horrendous, completely out of place joke even leaves your mouth, "S'il vous plaît, Nicolas, Mme Du Pont est ma mère, appelez-moi Celine." [Please, Nicolas, Mrs. Du Pont is my mother, call me Celine.]

So really, when there is no sign of humor even on his face, you rightfully comfort yourself with the fact that the meme is literally before it's time.

You look away from a confusedly polite Nicolas and your gaze lands right on Armand's. With how the night is going, you better fucking end up with the winning ticket, otherwise the universe is just being mean.

You turn your eyes away just as fast, simply because it's too fucking awkward. You'd almost pulled a Bella Swan when he left you, he probably fucking knew too. It was emasculating. Reasonably, your reason may be stupid, but…

Shit, he's heard you use Céline's name, hasn't he? Fucking bastard, there's no way he didn't. It's not even surprising, at this point you just hope he doesn't merc Nicolas, it's rare to have a decent musician around in this economy.

Speaking of whom, you smile at him politely and turn back to the game. Which is sort of in the nick of time, because Muhammad fucking Ali stings like a butterfly and floats like a bee and he still lands an uppercut.

Yeah, miraculously, he wins.

Which is how you find yourself hosted onto the shoulder of Nicolas' mysterious companion. Checking in the cash and the trip to a close-by pub are a blur.

All the while you remain in your initial position, the guy seems to be pretty strong, underneath a dark woolen cloak. The only thing that breaks the illusion of being Pippin carried by Aragorn is a curl of blonde hair that pokes out at his neck.

Nicolas slaps you on your back one more time, ordering brandy, "félicitations, mon ami. Santé – à ta victoire!" [Congratulations, my friend. Cheers – to your victory!]

People cheer, drunk out of their minds. Again Nicolas yells "à Celine!" [to Celine!]

An echo of the name runs through the pub. The praise, despite the bitterness that follows the incorrect name, still has you blushing, the need to properly thank someone gnaws at you, "c'est trop, Nicolas, tu es terriblement gentil avec moi…" [It's too much, Nicolas, you're terribly kind to me...]

The stranger beside him laughs throatily, even that sounds musical. Next to him your friend also chuckles, "s'il te plaît, Celine, appelle-moi Nicky, c'est ce que font tous mes amis." [Please, Celine, call me Nicky, that's what all my friends do.]

And comically, just as the implications of that nickname settle in, Nicky's friend removes the cloak, his complaints about the temperature turning into radio static in your mind. Because he beams at you, the edges of his lips genuinely reaching the iridescent eyes.

You down a full glass and curse at yourself as the blond introduces himself, "Lestat de Lioncourt, mademoiselle, ravi de faire votre connaissance." [Lestat de Lioncourt, miss, pleased to meet you.]

And you can't help but smile back in return, shaking his hand instead of letting him kiss it, even as a pit opens up deep in your stomach. Even as red eyes continue to glare from a distance.

Chapter Text

Five drinks in and the novelty of meeting Lestat still hasn't worn off. Especially when his and his lover's(?) attention is solely locked in on you.

He really does look too beautiful, every bit the y/n that Anne Rice intended him to be. Even without vampirism his eyes seem to change color. In your drunken state you wonder about it out loud, and regret it almost immediately.

He seems amused though, "je suis le premier de ma lignée à les avoir, ma mère a dit qu'ils me marquaient comme quelqu'un de spécial." [I am the first of my lineage to have them, my mother said they marked me as someone special.]

Ah yes, Gabrielle, the Freudian mother. The more you knew about her, the less you wanted to hear, but the tone of Lestat's voice strikes a chord in you.

"Est-ce qu'elle te manque?" [Do you miss her?]

He blinks at you in surprise, "Suis-je si facile à lire?" [Am I so easy to read?]

You shake your head with a small smile, the fondness you had for his vampiric depiction bubbling up again. He must see it in your face, the longing, because he offers his hand.

You look at it dumbly for a moment, then at Nicky who has an entertained smile playing on his face, mirroring Lestat's, the latter finally deigns you with an explaination, "c'est un bar, nous avons de la musique, dansez avec moi!" [This is a bar, we have music, dance with me!]

And for all his elegance on stage, and next to Louis during mardi gras, Lestat is a terrible lead. He steps on your toes, multiple times, giving you more appreciation for all the male leads you once diminished. But it is fun, more than you've had since, well, arriving here. He spins you till you're dizzy, it feels like dancing on clouds.

In the moment, you're filled with love and gratitude, towards Lestat, Nicky, towards the Du Ponts. You cannot do anything about it, except rush to the bar and pull Nicky onto the dance floor. It takes some pleading, but it isn't long until the three of you are dancing in an unorthodox, completely inelegant triangle.

It reminds you of Jude, unable to break free from fairy music, feet enchanted to move in rhythm.

Perhaps that is why, Lestat is the one to move both you and his partner back to your seats, drenched in sweat and still laughing.

He grabs a glass left unattended by Nicky and gulps it down before teasing "je pense presque que tu fais une arnaque, Celine!" [I could almost think you're a swindler, Celine!]

Your laugh is unable to match his, it's too bashful. And you are painfully reminded that there is the added godforsaken problem of Armand knowing Lestat before his turning, because you went and blurted out what his real name was. A-fucking-mazing!

Lestat looks like he notices your newfound discomfort, but a brat in the future is a brat in the past, so he continues anyway, "Eh bien, je le penserais, si notre Céline n'avait pas fait pareil. Je crois que vous êtes les deux seuls gagnants, c'est ça, Nicky?" [Well, I would think so, if our Céline hadn't done the same. I think you're the only two winners, right, Nicky?]

The other man rolls his eyes good-naturedly, "bien sûr, vous aimeriez la poésie de cela, même si ce serait irréaliste. Il y a environ 16 lauréats du prix Lestat, même si c'est trop peu." [Of course, you would like the poetry of that, even though it would be unrealistic. There are about 16 winners of the prize, Lestat, even if it is too few.]

They're flirting shamelessly, but you are still too stuck on what was said, "Ta Céline?" [Your Céline?]

You must look dumbstruck enough for Lestat to guffaw, although that gives you an idea of where Nicky got his past drunken manners (or rather lack thereof) from.

"On ne te l'avait pas dit? Nicky et moi, on travaille au théâtre." Like you needed him to tell you that, Lestat dressing as Harlequin is the whole reason you started your paper on commedia dell'arte. "Céline est une comédienne, mon homologue, de temps en temps." [Didn't we tell you? Nicky and I work at the theater. Céline is an actress, my partner, from time to time.]

Now, you're no jester, but you've begun to notice when you're being played for laughs. Not by your companions, but rather, by the greater subconscious of whatever otome isekai god has placed you here. And this is a theory, a game theory, but…

You notice her scent before you see her, it is the same perfume that you apply with a ball in your throat every morning. And even more so, when she does appear, Céline is the spitting image of Mimi, except her eyes, they're a dark shade of gray, even in the yellow candle light.

She steps towards you like she knows you, maybe she does, you barely hear when you're introduced.

"Ravie de faire votre connaissance, dépensons bien notre argent." Céline's smile is soft, shy. She shakes you hand tenderly, her palms calloused from years spent at the restaurant, but fingers nimble and long, like a pianist's. You try not to focus on them for too long. [It's nice to meet you, let's waste our money well.]

The alcohol kicks back in, you barely stumble through your words, all while beaming, impulsively hugging her arm to your chest, "le plaisir est tout pour moi. Aucun argent dépensé pour des amis n'est gaspillé, rejoignez-nous pour boire un verre." [The pleasure is all mine. No money spent on friends is wasted though, join us for a drink.]

She nods, then pauses, "you're English or American?" Her words, doused with a French accent, eat away at whatever is left of your guilt and morality towards her.

"You can tell that easily, huh?" Your words feel clunky, spoken after so long, like eating tangerines again in the winter.

Her smile widens, "studied for a year in Cambridge, dropped out, now I act."

Lestat cuts in almost immediately, slapping the table and you don't know whether to be annoyed or glad, "Assez de ce langage affreux, revenez au français et confiez-nous vos secrets!" [Enough of this terrible language, return to French and tell us your secrets!]

The two of you share a look, there's still so much to be said and explained, yet a fit of laughter overtakes you.

Lestat is practically in Nicky's lap, one leg over the other; and you find yourself wondering once more why they feel so safe around a practical stranger. You ask as much.

This time it's Nicky who casually answers, "je me demandais où tu te reconnaissais depuis hier soir; j'ai finalement compris pendant que nous dansions." he sits up more comfortably, hand around Lestat's waist, neck buried in his luscious hair. "Tu délirais, ta robe était en lambeaux. J'avoue que ton odeur m'a un peu dégoûtée, mais tes murmures en anglais ont piqué ma curiosité." [I was wondering where I recognized you from since last night; I finally understood while we were dancing. you were delirious, your dress was in tatters. I admit that your smell disgusted me quite a bit, but your whispers in English piqued my curiosity.]

Your legs have begun to ache; Lestat uncharacteristically notices your shifting and practically yanks you onto his now straightened thighs. Céline lets out an unladylike snort before she plops down on yours. It's quite unorthodox, and you're pretty sure the chair will topple any moment now, but there's a satisfying buzzing in your head and being sandwiched between three unfairly attractive individuals is heady.

You think for a single insane moment that if they propositioned you for a foursome, you'd give an enthusiastic yes.

Nicky clears his throat with some rum and continues, "tu chantais, des paroles et des rimes inconnues. quelque chose sur le fait qu'un homme soit homosexuel ou d'origine européenne ; j'ai trouvé ça amusant, mais…" [You were singing, unknown lyrics and rhymes. Something about whether a man is homosexual or of European origin; I found it funny, but...]

"Don't- Ne vous sentez pas trop coupable de ne pas m'avoir abordé, je sais disgust- le dégoût que mon état a inspiré. À votre place, je ferais pareil." You stumble over the accented words, immediately embarrassed. [(Don't-) Don't feel too guilty for not approaching me, I know (disgust)- the disgust that my state inspired. In your place, I would do the same.]

Still, you don't get to stew in it for long, as the already delicate chair breaks and topples your small quartet. The brunt of the fall is, of course, taken by Nicky, though he doesn't falter, almost as if having had experience for running away from trouble, he grabs the lot of you and darts out the door.

That is how you end up trudging through the watery snow in the streets of Paris, right up to the door of it's famed theater.

Céline rummages inside her skirts, finally spotting a key and with playful grandeur, opens the back door into the building. She grabs the collar of your cloak and drags you in, never turning her back. Two man and a vampire follow you in, although the last one, as par his nature, remains unnoticed by all.

Chapter Text

The building is every theatre kid's wet dream, grand baroque structure with falling curtains and dimly-lit yellow walls. You practically salivate, even more so when you enter the actor's quarters.

Upon entering, they quickly rush to light the furnace and only then do you get a chance to really look around.

Corsets and cloths imitating rich silks of the nobility cover every possible surface. Céline dramatically faints onto a loveseat, clutching a pearl-pink dress. Nicky immediately darts to the vanity, rummaging around, while Lestat nonchalantly slides up to him, groping his behind.

You avert your eyes, vaguely gauging Nicky's amused protest. Céline meets your gaze, unabashed, extending a hand, as if to motion you towards her, and when you do grasp it, she pulls you down onto her, the dress being the only barrier between the two of you.

When she whispers into your ear, shivers run down your spine, you always were a sucker for a raspy French accent, "I don't know how you so easily fooled my parents, or took my name, and even my scent, but I applaud you 'Celine'..."

The terror must be evident on you because she grins wickedly and pulls you nose to nose, "though don't think for a moment I have forgotten. Better hope you will not outgrow my shoes anytime soon, cherie."

She laughs, vaguely triumphant, before smacking her lips onto your forehead, no doubt having left a mark, given the smudge of red on her own lips. Before the gay panic can set in, you're rudely interrupted by Lestat.

"Devez-vous toujours parler cette horrible langue? Tu peux aussi parler du sexe bestial que tu auras en français, tu sais." He shrugs and looks down at his nails for dramatic effect, before glancing up, directly at where your hand has unconsciously brunched up Céline's skirt, dangerously close to her inner thigh. "Je ne suis jamais celui qui juge." [Do you really have to speak that horrible language? You can also talk about the animalistic sex you will have in French, you know. I am never the one to judge.]

You shriek softly in embarrassment and throw the nearest object you can grab at him, which just so happens to be a very old looking vase.

Just as the life of a host club member flashes through your eyes, Lestat skillfully manages to catch the damn thing, like he's Peter Parker trying to impress MJ in a cafeteria.

Which is not a very inaccurate description, given that the moment the decoration is in his hands, he throws a winning smile at a disgruntled Nicky.

Nevertheless, ever the savior, the latter brings out a bottle with a dark amber liquid. There is a single glass that works as a bottle cap, but you're shitfaced far beyond caring about sanitation. The couple plops down around an old wide tabouret; right away, you and Céline scramble over to join them.

It would be an awkward huddle with any other company, legs crossed and fidgeting. But Céline is rubbing circles on your forearms and Lestat is shoving your leg with his, motioning you to down the glass next.

You look at him in confusion, unused to just doing shots in silence, or even light small-talk, "ne devrais-je pas proposer un toast?" [Shouldn't I offer a toast?]

Lestat almost snorts out the cigarette Céline is lighting for him across the tabouret, nearly burning her in the process, "Bénissez nos récoltes pendant que vous y êtes." [Bless our harvests while you're at it.]

Céline, evidently slighted, snatches the cigarette from him, taking the drag of her own. Lestat kicks her shin, in return receiving a nasty tug at his hair, and from there it deteriorates into a full-blown cat fight.

You down your glass quietly, cringing slightly at the burn, when Nicky sits over, offering you a pickled cucumber to chase down the taste, you take it gratefully. You two share his cigarette, pickle in each's hand, crunching away and watching the fight unfold.

It is quite entertaining, even more so when Céline pulls out a pair of scissors form somewhere, and then manages to grab a bunch of Lestat's hair, who then immediately concedes.

You and Nicky clap loudly, having drank a third of the bottle by yourselves. Lestat pouts, sprawling out on the floor and refusing to get up.

Just then a brilliant idea hits you, "dame et messieurs, je vous propose un jeu." [Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a game]

And with that, they perk up like starved hyenas smelling blood.

You explain the basics of each dressing in costumes with certain characters in mind and others having to take a shot for every wrong guess.

It quickly devolves into a game of who can do the best drag. Mostly because of Lestat.

He starts off strong with a puffy dress, which takes him ages to put on, especially with his lover's help; then a French hood with a pearl necklace to top it off.

Right away, he preens and prances around, shaking his head at every answer. Finally, not wanting to be cheated from the fun by the time his turn comes to drink, he makes a quick motion to his neck, accentuating a haphazardly shaped "B" in the middle of the faux pearls.

Céline is quick to shout, "Anne Boleyn!" and go up to the stage next. She declines help, instead surprising everyone with a costume you can only describe as Hamiltonian. And with a start, you're reminded of the fact that everybody in this room qualifies as a contemporary of the said historical figure. Heck, he has not even thrown his shot away; yet...

She looks absolutely stunning, even with a stupid powdered wig, Céline's beauty shines through. Her whole being confuses you, her demeanor draws as much fear as it does arousal. As if reading your mind, she sends a quick wink; and on cue, blood rushes to your neck, heart and well, nether regions.

You don't even get a chance to form your thoughts, because Nicky guesses Jefferson correctly and rushes backstage, clearly excited about his idea.

Outsteps a lady in a white chiton and rosy cheeks. The hair tousled and hands covered in red paint.

It's too easy to guess Medea after Clytemnestra and Jocasta are rejected. By then, the bottle is almost empty, you are all plastered, and you remember that Mimi and Jac are waiting at home, all the while you're hanging out with their not-so-dead-or-even-lost daughter. Guilt and confusion eat away at you as you go to the dressing room, and you decide, might as well go out with a bang.

You take the most obnoxious-looking white wig, cover your face with the same shade of makeup, find the most grandiose pink dress in the room and as a final touch, mark your neck in red to emulate blood.

When you come out, their reactions are something between shock and bewilderment, as if they know who you're emulating but don't dare say it.

And well, fuck. You have significantly fucked up.

The French revolution has yet to end, even more so, the monarchs have yet to lose their heads. You've basically chosen a side in their civil war because you got vodka drunk (or whatever the fuck else that liquid was).

You can practically feel the title of your manga changing from "I'm a side character in my favorite vampire show?!" to "That time I accidentally travelled to another world and kick-started the French revolution."

But just as you're spiraling, you do hear a restrained laugh, then another one; you realize these guys are actors, and even Lestat who's technically a nobleman has shitty relations with his family. It's relaxing, freeing. It feels like university all over again, finding the people you get along with like that.

Céline follows you backstage so that you don't fall and accidentally rip the dress. Even more so, she helps you with the corset, hand grazing softly against your back; follows along your shoulders as she guides your arms out of the sleeves. It feels familiar, contrasting her harsh words from before.

Her whisper is soft, weary, as she rests her forehead on the crook of your neck, "je suis content que ce soit toi qu'ils aient accueilli." [I'm glad it was you that they welcomed.]

You are left speechless as she continues, "Ne vous sentez pas trop à l’aise, ne pensez pas qu’ils accepteront vos péchés." [Don't get too comfortable, don't think they will accept your sins.]

She spits the final word out like its venom on her tongue, and not for the first time that night you wonder what could have happened between her and her parents.

You pat her head softly, almost reverently, until her breath has stabilized and your shoulder no longer feels wet from her tears. Only then do you finally dress and emerge from the room.

Predictably, Lestat and Nicky are all over each other so you say a quick goodbye and let Céline be the one to walk you to the door, but no further. And when she does not offer to do so either, you understand why.

Instead, you step out into the freezing night, lamps barely lit in the streets. The other two, having noticed your absence, finally catch up there, insisting they walk you home, that it's not safe out there drunk and alone.

As grateful as you are for that, you decline, wanting to clear you head in the chill air, and really, not caring if you'd be dead or in danger, though not saying that part out loud. It takes a long speech, but they reluctantly give in and let you go to stalk off in the streets, first snow of the year slowly starting to fall.

Phantom footsteps follow your own, impossible to notice until they are already too close.

Chapter Text

When Armand grabs you, you don't expect it, but neither are you especially surprised. He drags you to an alleyway, again a common occurrence, standing over you like the very greek god you once compared him to, with much less forgiving eyes.

(Not for the first time, you think he'd make a fine ass dominatrix.)

The atmosphere is different from the last time you'd interacted, the ground feels more even now.

Armand does not even let you catch your breath before he pounces, "Es-tu enfin assez civilisée pour répondre à mes questions, fille?" [Are you finally civilized enough to answer my questions, girl?]

This sassy bitch. "Que connais-tu à la civilisation, Armand? Ta putain de confrérie vit dans les égouts." [What do you know about civilization, Armand? Your fucking coven lives in the sewers.]

His eyes are like twin embers, wishing to burn a hole into your skull. There's a blur in your vision and a ringing in your head, but it is only when your cheek stings that you realize—he's slapped you. Quite tamely for a hundred-plus vampire, but still a nasty fucking slap; enough to hurt you, make you fear him.

Well maybe if you weren't hammered, sure.

In this situation, Armand's slap does nothing except infuriate you. And rage makes you foolish, "Ça doit être agréable, d'être celui qui inflige les punitions, de jouer le rôle du maître pour une fois…" [It must be nice, to be the one who inflicts the punishments, to play the role of the master for once...]

Purposefully, you avoid looking at him, taking a single breath to continue, voice mocking, "étiez-vous jaloux? Avez-vous eu l'impression d'être exclu du plaisir?" [Were you jealous? Did you feel like you were excluded from the fun?] A hesitant pause and then, "well, you left first."

The hurt from his abandonment had never fully waned, you'd promptly compartmentalized it and left it at that.

He'd left you like Frankenstein did his creature, except you know it's not a fair judgment. Armand is as ignorant of the reason of you being here as anybody. Which makes this even more embarrassing.

You do not think he'll understand what you said, of course, but you see the recognition in his eyes and the furrow of his brow. Armand grows softer, as he always has and will, to the idea of somebody needing him. His fingers, now more gentle in their approach, run through your hair in a manner that probably feels paternal for him. You flinch instinctively anyway.

"Que savez-vous de Marius, ma fille? Et de mon nom?" His gaze reminds you of something, a scene you can't quite put your finger on, partly because you're drunk and his claws caressing your scalp makes you drowsy. [What do you know about Marius, girl? What of my name?]

But this answer is something you curated slowly, moments before sleep each night, knowing he'd be back, "je suis Cassandra, et même si vous me croyez, la vérité que je sais ne peut être dite."[I am Cassandra, and even if you believe me, the truth that I know cannot be told.]

He's not particularly moved or surprised by your use of the metaphor, "Cassandra… Dois-je alors te dévorer, comme j’aurais dû le faire auparavant?" [Cassandra... Shall I devour you then, as I should have before?]

It's an empty threat, or even if it isn't, you don't feel the appropriate fear. Instead, you close your eyes and crane your neck, leaving yourself at his mercy for the nth time.

Armand, as deprived of food as he may be, does not raise to the bait; his face draws nearer to yours, smelling you. His nose scrunches, looking disturbingly similar to a displeased cat, possibly noticing the scent of Céline and the others, or cheap alcohol.

The absurdity of this situation draws a short laugh from you, startling him. But weirdest thing of all, he gives a small smile back, and every kind sentiment you held for him before this fuckery comes slamming back.

With the sudden urge to do so, you raise your hands slowly, and easily draw him into a hug, which is not particularly difficult given his height. Armand near melts into it.

Then you lean towards his ear and whisper "I'll help you, Armand, you won't be abandoned. But one day, and that day may never come, yet if it does, you'll do me a favor. Can you promise that?"

Armand draws back, and you wonder which poor soul he tortured to glean English from their mind. He begins, demurely "Oui, maître-" [Yes, master-]

"Non, je ne suis pas votre maître." [No, I'm not your master.]

A walking talking dichotomy is what he is, the good nurse and the fucking gremlin. And you're not nearly as desparate or selfish as Louis to indulge him in this bullshit. And yeah, it is shit, the way he's been twisted by his maker, into whatever shape the bastard wanted. But there's not much more you can do than distance your own personage in his mind from the dommy-daddy position.

He's oddly malleable, before Lestat and the theater, unsure in his own power. The Armand you remember is a leader in every right. You can't help but feel like you're being fooled; but to what end?

Before he was cruel, and he was vicious, you were no less than a test subject. Only he has a clue about what has possibly changed for him to now call you maître.

Armand has a carefully curated look on his face, not rejecting your statement, neither agreeing. You tangle your hands in his curls, only to not come across a single knot. It's difficult to tell whether he decided to dress up specifically today or if the upkeep is just the last vestige of his wounded vanity. Otherwise the hair is dull and oily to touch.

You want to wash it for him, gently, comb it away from his eyes, almost like a mother would. "Veux-tu venir avec moi, ma fille?" [Do you want to come with me, girl?]

You're startled by his question, then irked. He sure played you like a fiddle, appealing to you with the last shreds of his innocence.

He notices the shift in your body language and you can tell the exact moment he realizes his mistake, so he's not on the same level of gaslighting as he will be one day in Dubai. Thank whatever the fuck is preventing that (that being possibly time itself).

Still, you don't act out in rage, instead stating plainly "ramène-moi chez moi, Armand. Gardez ma confiance et vous garderez ma compagnie." [Take me home, Armand. Keep my trust and you will keep my company.]

He hesitates, but scoops you up like a child in one arm and carries you off; then to placate your slighted honor, he mumbles something about not wanting you to lose your balance.

By the time Armand brings you home it's nearly daybreak. Even with the sheer guilt and shame of having worried the Du Lacs to death, you notice his skin doesn't fizzle. Armand seemingly underestimates his own strength, what a terrifying concept.

When you finally gain grounding, you turn back towards him, and by some unfortunate circumstance, or rather muscle memory, your hand instinctually moves to dab him up.

The minute of silence stretches.

Armand's eyes fill with questions and instead of indulging him, you quickly just teach him a simple high five and send him on his way. Only then do you go inside to find Jac and Mimi passed out, sitting at the living room table.

Instead of waking them, you bring two blankets to place over their bodies gingerly and move over to the pub to get their work started early for them.

By the time the clock strikes 7, you have already prepared the dough, started the oven, gotten meat cut up and boiling for a fresh stew, and tidied.

You've even fed and milked Marguerite, the one and only breadwinner cow of the family.

Feeling tired and hearing noises coming from the main house, you retire to your room, your new companion's old room, not bothering with a bath or even clothes as you proceed to pass out from blissful exhaustion.