Chapter Text
It's Rashid who finds him, laid out on the penthouse living room floor, blood drying sticky over his neck, the collar of his shirt, his lips.
Turns out Armand’s blood does kind of taste like honey, excessively sweet.
The pineapple is a stretch though.
***
It seems Armand immediately fucked off to god knows where after giving Daniel his blood, so Rashid and some other guys he assumes must also be from the Talamasca have no trouble leading him out of the Al Sharaf Towers. They shuffle him into the back of a waiting black car and, later, a private plane. Daniel wants to ask questions, thinks, maybe, that he does, something like, so do you smuggle vampires across international borders often, Real Rashid? or I thought you guys were supposedly underfunded? Except, he’s a little distracted because—
His body is dying.
He can feel it happening as he boards the plane and stumbles into one of the plush leather seats, feels himself going from the floaty euphoria of drinking Armand’s blood—uncomfortably similar to a truly exquisite high—and slipping instead into wracking shivers and seizing, crippling pain. It feels like every single one of his worst comedowns and withdrawals rolled into one, and then doused in acid for good measure. He grits his teeth so hard against it that he tastes blood.
He remembers Louis describing the death of his own body during the interview, his voice placid and even as he recounted the experience, the horror of it communicated from a respectable distance, a gentle remove.
Talk about underselling it.
Eventually, the shivers subside and, as dawn approaches, he falls into an unusually deep sleep.
When he wakes again, it’s evening. He watches through the protective coating on the passenger window as the sky slowly darkens, a thousand tiny dots of light twinkling to life far below as they approach the city. The shivers are fully gone and Daniel knows that he’s fully dead.
He runs his tongue over his teeth; his canines feel too sharp. As soon as the thought crosses his mind, he feels them get a little sharper, a little longer. Okay.
“Hey Rashid?” he calls, craning his neck around his seat. Sure enough, Rashid is seated just behind and to the left of him, eyes on his phone. “Any advice for a newly turned vampire going through a crisis?”
He feels more alert and energized than he’s felt in at least 30 years. Maybe ever. His hands are steady where they grip the armrest, the fingernails like mirrored glass. He thinks if he grips the armrest tight enough, he could break it.
“I would recommend avoiding sunlight,” Rashid says without looking up.
Amazing. Daniel rolls his eyes, the slow creep of rising hysteria admittedly subsiding.
Damn, he really is starting to like that guy.
***
He’s dropped off in front of his building, with his suitcase and a small cooler Rashid had given him when they got off the plane. He hasn’t opened it yet, but. He assumes it’s full of blood. Literally what else would it be.
He gets a text from an unknown number as the car drives off that simply says We’ll be in touch - RJ.
And that’s it. He’s home.
Fucking Christ.
He goes inside and puts the blood in the fridge.
***
It’s an odd prospect, adjusting to life as a vampire. Daniel spends the first several days—nights—alternating between bouts of sheer unbridled glee and a vague, underlying sense of anger and anxiety.
The glee wins out most of the time. Hard for it not to when he feels good, strong, better than he’s ever felt, old aches and pains he’s learned to live with for years gone, along with the tremors. He doesn’t even slouch anymore—his body doesn’t want him to. He can smoke again, thank god. He has fangs. Come on.
But there’s also—the fact that it was forced on him, and by Armand of all people. The excuses he’ll have to make to the people he cares about. The promise of living forever.
At the age of 69 and facing a degenerative illness, his mortality had weighed on him; the weight’s gone from his shoulders now, but the concept of immortality is like a black hole in the distance: beautiful and utterly fucking incomprehensible. It’s too big to really think about, so he mostly doesn’t.
He’d wanted this once, wholly, badly, when he’d asked Louis for it back in that apartment on Divisadero in ‘73. Doesn’t think he ever entirely stopped wanting it, even when he couldn’t fully remember what it was.
But the thing is, he hadn’t just wanted the bite then. He’d wanted–
Anyway.
So, he spends his nights adjusting. Drinks the blood that’s stocked up in the fridge (courtesy of “The Farm”?), talks to his editor and ignores his half questions about why he never seems to call before 6pm anymore. He walks through his neighborhood, explores the nighttime city streets, everything just the slightest bit different—richer, stranger, more intense through immortal eyes.
He spends a lot of time listening to the recordings from Dubai.
Part of it is about working on the book; he gets a new laptop delivered two days after he returns and he’s barely been logged in for ten minutes before he starts getting friendly messages from Raglan James asking him about his progress. Jesus, this guy.
But mostly, he just listens to Louis speak—the deep voice, the almost hypnotic cadence of his words. The reality is, it’s the closest thing to any kind of guidance he’s got to go on in all this. His maker’s in the wind and sure, he’s still got a trove of files from the Talamasca to finish going through, sure to contain some kind of useful info. But Louis’ words, his story, they feel like guidance. The voice of God, leading him once more. Daniel holds onto it like another lifeline.
***
The blood in the fridge eventually runs out.
***
His first kill is easier than he expects, logistically speaking. Youngish guy, jogging in the park late at night. It feels instinctual; his body knows what he needs to do before his mind even fully catches up.
He drags the guy off the path and into the woods faster than he can react, covering his mouth with one hand before he can yell. Holds him down easily against a tree with the other while he thrashes. He's got a long neck, smooth, damp with sweat. Daniel can hear his panicked thoughts, his heart pumping blood, too fast, too fast and the sound of it makes his fangs ache in his gums, makes them drop. He darts forward and sinks his teeth into the man’s flesh, tearing into his carotid artery.
The man groans under his palm; blood flows into Daniel’s mouth in a rush, like the breaking of a dam, and Daniel groans too, at the taste of it, the slick feeling of it sliding down his throat, and it's–god. The bagged stuff he’s been living off of for the past week doesn't compare. Half the drugs he used in his 20s don't compare. He gulps it down. Laps it up against his neck. Drinks more. Feels the rush of holding the guy’s life in his hands, the intimacy of his memories flickering across his mind as he sucks him down.
He feels the body start to go cold in his grip and wrenches his teeth away, letting it drop, a remembered warning prickling at the back of his mind in Louis’ voice. He has to steady himself, briefly, against the tree after, catch breaths he's aware he doesn't really need. His blood buzzes in his veins like someone’s electrocuted his bloodstream.
He feels good. Really good. Good in a way that’s kind of…hmm.
He's not turned on, but he's also not not turned on. Which is—kind of fucked up?
There's a dead body on the ground next to him.
Okay. Okay.
***
He disposes of the body, weights it and drops it in a quiet part of the river. When he makes it back to the condo, he washes his hands and his face, and then he sits on the couch. Tips his head back and looks at the painted ceiling. He thumbs at the scar on his neck, the place where he's been bitten three times now.
He’s not sure how he feels right now. He thinks he should be feeling guilty about the guy he just killed, but he isn't, not really. It does feel like he's crossed some kind of threshold though, some invisible line of no return, any doubts about what he is well and truly squashed.
He wonders if this is what it felt like for Louis, underneath all that denial and reluctance to kill. If it's what added to the denial and the reluctance to kill. Hard to look away from what you are when you're drinking some guy's blood and loving it. When it's easy. When it feels good.
He licks at the inside of his cheek, over his gums, catches lingering traces of the man’s blood. It's sweet. Not honey sweet like the hectic memory of Armand’s, but sweet like strawberries, or plums, or maybe pomegranate seeds–something dark and heavy with juice. Overripe; bursting slick and wet across his tongue.
The restless, not quite turned on feeling that's been churning in his gut since the park flares a little hotter. Inches a little further away from not. A lot further, actually.
Okay, so, apparently that's another thing about being turned that he'll need to get used to. Before, his body wasn't exactly raring to go all that often, took some work for him to get there. Age, illness, his fucking drug history catching up with him—it was what it was. The last time he'd had sex had already been a measure of years, even before the Parkinson's diagnosis. So yeah.
In Dubai, he'd actually been a little thankful for his faulty dick at times, because. Well. It wasn't like–as pissed off as he is and was at one of the vampires in question, it's not like the sight of two freakishly attractive people sucking on each other, for instance, didn't—look, anybody watching that would feel a little—
Louis' teeth in Armand’s neck. The noises coming from the both of them, soft gasping from Armand, the sucking and groaning from Louis. Louis’ Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. And the curve of his jaw, and the way he moved his whole body into every pull. The smear of blood when he finally pulled away, head tilted back, sucking his own plush bottom lip into his mouth. Looking at Daniel after.
Daniel finds himself thumbing at the zipper on his fly, his dick kicking in his underwear. He can still taste blood.
Jesus.
He takes a long, slow breath and lets it out.
He can't jerk off to the shit in his head right now. Just. No.
He sits up, reaches for the remote and turns on the TV. Usually around this time he'd be listening to the interview recordings, getting a little work done maybe, but the idea of hearing Louis’ voice right now seems like it might. Make things worse. So he doesn't do that.
He lets the hum of the television fill the silence.
Near dawn, sleep starts to pull at him and so Daniel makes his way to his bedroom and the closet he’s been sleeping in for the past few days, the space covered in spare blankets and pillows.
He really needs to get himself a coffin. Sleeping in a closet feels like way too much irony, even for him.
***
A few nights later he tries, experimentally, to broadcast his thoughts.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing. Both Louis and Armand talked about it several times in Dubai, conversations held only in their minds. But they never really explained it in depth, never talked about how. Daniel had figured out how to read people's thoughts pretty quickly, something about it surprisingly intuitive. And when he concentrates, he can sort of hear what he thinks must be the other vampires, a muted, staticky haze of noise and blood. It’s weird as hell, but kind of fascinating too.
He hasn't quite figured out how to focus in on any of them though, how to pick out a specific mind from amongst the horde. So he closes his eyes, tries to think as loudly as he can, and hopes for the best.
Louis, he thinks. Can you hear me, Louis?
No response.
Louis, he tries again. He imagines Louis’ face in his head—the light green eyes, the distinct slope of his nose, the full lips. Those placid little expressions he makes that never look happy enough to really classify as a smile.
He visualizes his words arcing through the air and reaching him, wherever he is: Louis du Lac. Are you out there?
And then, in a tone laced with utter confusion, even in Daniel’s mind: Daniel?
Hearing Louis’ voice again, outside of a laptop speaker for the first time in nearly two weeks is an immediate, indescribable relief. It feels like it’s been longer. He’d gotten so used to hearing it daily.
Yeah, Daniel responds, sitting forward on the couch like it’ll make the connection stronger. It’s me. Hey listen man, you got any recommendations on where I can order a coffin from? I’m trying to get it delivered at night, for obvious reasons.
What!? Daniel, are you—did Armand—?
Yeah, Daniel says, a mental sigh. I am. He did. But to be fair, I may have brought it on myself a little bit.
Meaning?
Well—
***
He’d been in the guest bedroom, packing up his stuff like Louis told him to do, when he’d heard Armand’s voice from the doorway.
"All of this," he’d said, tone low and nearly devoid of inflection, frighteningly flat. Daniel had only just managed to keep himself from visibly flinching as he looked up. "All of this because of some insignificant mortal. Some unwanted interloper. Some boy."
He was watching Daniel, his unblinking amber eyes nearly red in the dim light of the bedroom, still covered in dust, blood matting the hair at his temple. Daniel had no idea how long he’d been standing there.
“Right,” Daniel said, turning his attention back to his suitcase. “Yeah that’s me, the insignificant boy. Sure.” He zipped it shut and then looked up. “But just—didn’t Louis say before he left that he wanted you to get out of his apartment? So which one of us is really the unwanted interloper here, hmm? Because I don't think it's me.”
Armand’s head tilted, the slow unsettling movement of a predator spotting something helpless and wriggling. Daniel would have preferred not to think of himself as either of those things, but minutes later, when Armand had commandeered his body like he did in 1973, and dragged him, limp, from the guest room, he had to admit that it would have been a fairly apt description.
***
“Daniel,” Louis says in his mind, tone mildly exasperated now.
“It wasn't even that mean,” Daniel protests. “But. I guess, given the circumstances—baiting the torture-happy vampire who's 70-year-long house of lies just crumbled, may not have been the best idea.”
“No, perhaps not,” Louis says, dry. “Did he hurt you?”
“Well, he didn't torture me for days on end again if that's what you're asking," Daniel says. "After he dragged me out of the room, he threw me up against the wall and then he pounced on me.”
He can admit that he’d been scared though, as it was happening, as Armand commanded him to go limp and his legs buckled obediently. Losing control of his body like that was still—
He didn’t like it. He really didn’t like it.
“I’m sorry,” Louis says, like maybe some of that came through in his thoughts. “I should have seen something like that coming.”
“Yeah, well. Like I said, I could have kept my mouth shut.”
“Not exactly what you’re known for, Daniel,” Louis comments.
Rude.
(He kind of likes it though.)
“I’ve told you, it’s the journalist in me,” Daniel says lightly. He lays back on the couch, settles with his back against the armrest. “I never know when to quit.”
“I didn't say it was always a bad thing,” Louis replies, something warmer in his tone. Gratitude perhaps. Maybe fondness, if he's real lucky. He wonders if it’s enough to pull one of those rare, genuine smiles out of him. Daniel imagines what it might look like and wishes he was seeing it in person.
“Hey, where are you anyway?”
“I'm in New Orleans,” Louis tells him.
Ah. Of course. “You’re with Lestat,” Daniel guesses, feeling—something at the idea. He doesn’t dwell on whatever it is.
“No, I’m not with Lestat,” Louis says mildly. “I’m just. Here. Out. Learning the city again.”
Makes sense. Now that he’s listening for it, he notices how much stronger Louis' accent has sounded throughout this whole conversation, even in his mind, those sharp consonants more pronounced than usual. He's used to it creeping in and out as he speaks, but he doesn't think he's heard it so consistent since that night back in San Francisco.
He's pretty sure his own face is probably doing something unbearably stupid in response. He does like it, when Louis sounds like that.
“Yeah?” he says, partially to distract himself and also Louis from noticing. “Haven't been there in a while. Where in the city are you?”
“Jackson Square. Walking along the path.”
"Bet it's changed a lot since the last time you were there."
“In some ways,” Louis says. “But in others, it's still the same.”
He lets the contentment in Louis' voice paint a picture for him: the lush trees and the gas lights, and the towering steeples of St. Louis Cathedral in the distance. Louis himself, a solitary figure standing apart from the other visitors enjoying the evening. Alone, but maybe a little less lonely.
“You alright, Daniel?” Louis asks, at length, his mental voice soft with gentle concern. “I can't imagine it's been an easy transition.”
Daniel waves a hand even though Louis can't see him. “Yeah I'm alright,” he says, and he realizes that, in that moment at least, it's mostly true. “Hey, you been down by the riverfront yet?”
“I have.”
“Tell me about it.”
Louis does.
***
A coffin gets delivered straight to Daniel’s front door the following night.
Rich people, Daniel thinks loudly, derisively, after the delivery guys have placed it in his living room.
You're welcome, he hears back immediately, Louis' mental voice pointed. Daniel feels a grin tug at his lips.
***