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There’s never a good time to lose your passport.
But Daniel thought he may have just won the award for the worst fucking time there could’ve been, immediately post-bomb-drop with the trial script and alone in the penthouse with a very angry vampire.
And he understood it. Understood Armand’s fury and Louis’ desperation to leave this place as well get to Lestat after the revelation - but it had also left him in a very difficult situation. It was nice of Louis to arrange a car to the airport, Daniel would give him that much, but he couldn’t exactly get in it without his passport.
Louis probably had other things on his mind. Which was Daniel’s fault, really, but it didn’t help much. Couldn’t have even seen me off, Louis? Just up and left me alone in the penthouse with the five hundred year old vampire whose marriage I just imploded?
He’d packed up his clothes and his belongings (not his laptop, that was still sitting on the table in a melted heap), and realised that the one thing he needed to leave the country wasn’t here. He could’ve left with just the clothes on his back if it meant he’d escape with his life - Armand’s Cloud Gift couldn’t catch up with the speed of a modern plane, and so Daniel might have been able to lose him for a bit - but he couldn’t get on the fucking plane. He could’ve left the penthouse, sure, but after hearing about the vampire’s love for a chase he decided he’d much rather be murdered inside than after making a pitiful attempt at running for it.
Louis had told Armand not to touch him before he left, but would that have any sort of meaning now? The whole Maitre thing was definitely over. Louis probably wouldn’t be back for a while to protect Daniel, and if Louis did try to kill Armand like he’d threatened, he figured Armand could hold his own. There was nothing stopping Armand from coming in here to kill Daniel, because he couldn’t leave, because didn’t have his fucking passport. Rest in peace, Daniel Molloy. Died because he provoked an ancient vampire and then couldn’t keep track of his stuff when it actually mattered.
Couldn’t Armand just stay in the hole he’d made in the wall? It would be so much easier for Daniel if he just stayed in the hole in the wall.
“Daniel,” Armand said, very much not in the hole in the wall.
He was standing in the open door of the guest bedroom. Daniel hadn’t heard him get up, hadn’t heard him walk through the penthouse or even open the door in his panic. What was he even doing?! Did he have any survival instincts at all? He was definitely going to die here, he thought. Would Armand be nice enough to at least let him send some final emails? Factory reset his phone?
And Armand had called him Daniel. Even when the annotated trial script was sitting on the table, he had still called him Mr Molloy; but now he was standing there and still covered in dust it was Daniel, gentle and lilting, paired with a wide-eyed stare to where he was halfway through pulling apart all the drawers in the room.
“You haven’t left,” he said quietly.
Daniel stopped what he was doing, and gestured down at himself. “Obviously not.”
“I thought Louis arranged a car.”
There was no point in lying when Armand could read his mind, and Daniel hadn’t quite yet figured out how to shield his thoughts. He would find out one way or another, anyway; when days had passed and Daniel was still milling about in the penthouse, unable to leave, playing a game of cat and mouse behind the sofas and under the tables to avoid being bitten to death.
“...I lost my passport,” he said, just slightly ashamed. There was a buried-deep but humiliated part of him that didn’t want Armand to think he was confused in his old age. He’d just misplaced it, that was it, everyone loses their passport at some point and he was still fine and could write and interview the way he used to, he hadn’t lost his touch yet, and-
“It’s in your satchel,” Armand interrupted his spiralling thoughts. “In the front pocket. In the dining room.”
“...Oh.”
Armand came to sit on the bed, politely avoiding the strewn bedsheets and thrown-about cushions and perching on the bare edge of the mattress. The room did look a mess, Daniel thought, but he hadn’t been particularly concerned with that when he was frantically searching for his passport, thinking he was on a timer that was slowly ticking down to the Vampire Armand is gonna kill you.
“Are you gonna kill me?” He asked, because Armand had probably heard the thought anyway.
He clicked his tongue as he looked up at Daniel, the warm amber of his eyes dropping colder, to something calculated and suspicious. He unfolded his hands before he spoke and placed them on his knees.
“I don’t need to, apparently.” He raised an accusatory brow. “As you are already dying, and did not see fit to tell us.”
“...What?”
Could Armand have detected something in him, with that freaky vampire hearing? Or was there something wrong with his blood? Could a vampire sense any of that? Was he dying, and he hadn’t even known it? Was-
“I found your funeral plan,” he said, with a cool sort of rage in his voice.
How was that the first time he’d heard Armand angry since Louis left? There was no mirth in his voice before. He’d greeted Daniel by his first name, spoke politely, told him where his passport was when Daniel thought there was a zero percent chance of him not being murdered. And yet now was the only time he’d seemed angry.
“Uh. Yeah?”
It didn’t surprise him that Armand had done some internet stalking prior to Daniel’s arrival, so he didn’t bring it up lest he find out what else the vampire had dug up about him.
“And you have nothing to say about that?”
“About my funeral plan?”
“About the fact that you’re dying,” Armand gritted through his teeth. “And let Louis bring up the fact that you flew halfway across the world during a pandemic while you’re immunocompromised in jest, and still said nothing. You somehow managed to shield this from both of us, despite apparently not knowing how to hide your thoughts. You have made preparations for your death and didn’t-”
Daniel deflated with a sigh and, against his better judgement, sat down on the bed next to Armand.
He wasn’t cold. Daniel supposed he’d only fed a couple of days ago; it was only slightly unnerving, similar to a human warmth but with just a slight chill to it. He stopped talking when Daniel settled on the mattress, trailing off with a glance towards him and then a glance back at the floor.
He looked young like that. Curious, learning. Daniel fought back a pitying sigh.
“Most people my age have a funeral plan,” he explained. “I guess it’s different from when you were… or, from most of your life, probably. I don’t know how much you know about normal people costs up here with your shitload of money, but I just thought I’d… you know, I’d do one thing for my daughters after being a shitty dad their whole lives, and that would be making sure they didn’t get stuck paying for said shitty dad’s funeral.”
Armand seemed to take this in, with an expression on his face that felt far too familiar for some reason: as though he was enjoying the newfound knowledge, as though all of this was fascinating to him. Daniel couldn’t think of anything more boring. Files, more files, sending paperwork, filling out forms. Maybe he shouldn’t have bothered, now he was getting all the money from the book.
But he’d seen that expression before, he was sure of it. Something tender, sweetly fascinated. But he couldn’t have seen that look in San Francisco, and he knew he hadn’t seen it while he’d been in Dubai. So when…?
He had a feeling there was a lot more hidden away in his brain that he couldn’t recall. That much he knew for certain; the only thing he was unsure of was whether Armand would let him remember before he killed him.
“So you’re not… dying,” he said.
“Well. I am, slowly. Like all humans.” Daniel sighed again, rubbed his hands over his face. “I’ve got a while left in me yet. But I’ve paid for my funeral before the economy goes to even more shit, so I don’t have to worry about it.”
Armand stared down at the floor and murmured, “Tell me about it.”
“What?”
“Your funeral. Tell me about it.”
“Why? So you can know what’ll happen when you kill me?”
“Because I want to know,” he said, sickeningly honest. Daniel didn’t know what to do with that; with the complete one-eighty from the way he’d been cold and stony during the interview, and then panicked and desperate when Daniel brought the script out. Now he was just sitting on the bed, completely calm, gently inquisitive. It almost felt familiar; to have him sit so comfortable, so close.
Part of him wanted to keep it secret, but was there really any point if Armand was going to kill him anyway? Was he just sitting here to stave off the inevitable?
Daniel wondered if he’d give him an easeful death like he normally did with his victims, like how he’d promised him in San Francisco. Would he hold up that vow, even after all this time, after what he’d done? It’s okay. It’ll feel like a bath. Like honey on your tongue.
He hadn’t been able to stop thinking about those words since he remembered those six days holed up in the apartment. They were still fuzzy in his memory but at least they were there, and he felt considerably less scared of his impending death thinking it would feel like that. He hadn’t minded, when he’d let Armand take over, when he’d let him convince him. Would it feel the same now? When he’d started to lean into it, it had felt almost nice. He’d shivered when he’d leaned into Armand’s hold. It had been a long time since he’d been touched gently back then. It had been a long time even now.
Maybe it would be merciful. Maybe Armand would make the bed, if he was going to kill him here. Lie him down, keep everything clean. Stroke his hair a little the way he’d done before.
Daniel found himself speaking before he could stop himself. What would it matter, anyway, if he was dead?
“It’s a private thing. Not that a lot of people would want to come anyway, but, y’know. No press. And it’s not fancy,” he said, breaking the silence in a low whisper. “I didn’t want it to be fancy.”
“Not even now?” Armand’s question was strangely sincere. “You could alter it, with the money Louis is paying you.”
“It’s a funeral. Not a party,” he huffed. “I just didn’t want that for me. My kids can do what they want with what’s left of the money. I got what I wanted out of it.”
“...And what did you want?”
“Real nosy about my funeral, huh? Would you be mad if I told you you weren’t invited?” The distressed look on Armand’s face told him yes, he absolutely would be. “I mean, I wouldn’t be able to stop you from crashing it if I was dead. But you would have to explain who you were to everyone, and you’d sully my name by making everyone think I had a controversially young sugar baby before I fucked off to the Middle East in a pandemic and then randomly died.”
Armand just grimaced, unsatisfied with Daniel’s answer.
“But, uh, y’know. I got to pick what music I want. The coffin. Morbid, kind of, but at least I know what’s gonna come, right? I mean, not that you think coffins are weird. But it was weird for me. Knowing that I was gonna be dead in there, and everything. But I guess I won’t be able to feel it.”
Armand’s hand had found its way onto Daniel’s leg, absentmindedly tracing his kneecap with his sharp nails. It didn’t seem to be for anything. It was like he was just entertaining himself while Daniel spoke, like he was fondly imagining the coffin, the funeral itself. It was weird but sort of endearing, that Armand would be so intrigued by it all. Despite himself, he still felt special, even though Armand was definitely going to kill him in the very-near future.
The palm resting on his outer thigh was soothing. The contact was nice. Part of him thought about resting his head on Armand’s shoulder, getting it over with before he could be frightened, before he could change his mind.
He’d known this was going to happen, didn’t he? Surely he couldn’t have believed he’d get out of his expose unscathed.
I wanted to write the book, he thought sadly, distantly. I wanted to-
“I’m not going to kill you,” Armand interrupted his thoughts, a heavy firmness to his voice. “You’re not going to die.”
Daniel didn’t believe him. “I will someday. I’m not getting any younger, y’know.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I think you’ve misunderstood the concept of a degenerative disease.”
“Daniel,” Armand said again, turning to face him with that intense orange gaze, his eyes locking in on Daniel’s. “You’re not going to die.”
That gave him pause. Armand sounded serious. Daniel stared back into his eyes.
Armand reached up to cup his cheek, thumb rubbing in tight, firm circles by his earlobe, his nail only just scratching at the skin. The touch was fever-inducing; the memories of San Francisco bubbling just at the surface of his mind as Armand’s grip became tighter, slipping back from his face to the side of his neck, pressing his thumbprint to Daniel’s pulse point.
He stayed there for some long, long moments, eyes unblinking and mouth slightly open.
Daniel found a weak, fragile sliver of his voice that was still working enough to ask, “What do you mean, I’m not going to die?”
Armand pressed his thumb down harder into the side of Daniel’s neck, feeling his heartbeat against the pad of his thumb as his shoulders trembled, his body tensed up. His eyes were fixed on Daniel’s neck, his gaze heavy and intent and, at the same time, morbidly terrified. Daniel leaned into his touch again, his soft hand, the sturdy weight of it holding him up.
Armand’s gaze flicked back up to him, and Daniel saw the white glint of fangs dropping in his mouth.
“I mean, I won’t let you.”