Work Text:
There were, to approximate, three kinds of nights in the life of twenty-one year old Daniel Molloy, the young reporter with a point of view and – as it were at the time – few people willing to pay for said point of view.
First, and most rare, were the calm nights. The in-betweens. Those that happened after one of his stories had sold, or after some impulse, be it a brush with death that was a little too close to ignore or a wise older junkie telling him to get his shit together, sparked an admittedly half-assed attempt at doing just that. Daniel would beat back the itch in his brain begging to be scratched, make a chaotic attempt at tidying up the room he shared with his kind-of-boyfriend he met two weeks ago, feed himself proper food and put on the mask of a functional young man who told his neighbours good morning when he passed them in the hall. Those streaks never lasted too long, but still – let it never be told that Daniel Molloy didn’t try.
Normal life just didn’t want him, it seemed.
There were the nights spent chasing stories, too; there were so many that needed to be told, it felt at times as though it wasn’t even Daniel’s choice to delve into them. Like the hand of a God he hadn’t believed in since he began asking questions and found no satisfying answers, pushing this stumbling boy into the places no one else wanted to venture to. Daniel Molloy, the chosen one to give the forgotten and the unwanted their voices back.
The thrill of peering through the veil and finding the truth hidden underneath was his fuel on those nights as he sat across from those who’d slipped through the gaps, the rebelling youths and the dull-eyed elders who’d never before been asked what they thought of the society that pushed them out; most of them were eager to abandon the passivity and come into their own voices, but it was the ones who resisted that truly satisfied him. He was… A vampire, yes, feeding on the thrill of the hard-earned truths. Good at getting people to open up, Daniel was, and although at that time he could hardly keep count of the "society simply isn’t ready for this yet, mr. Molloy", he knew his time would come. He knew, with all certainty, that he had to keep going.
And yet. The third motif to round out the life of Daniel, and the one to appear most often – the only thing to make him feel alive more than any interview he’d ever done – was his flirtation with the dark. His own danse macabre, choreographed for one.
—
“Do you have money today, Danny?”
Daniel had hardly had the time to set down his bag before the distrustful eyes of his least favourite bartender were on him, pinning him like an insect to be examined. Daniel, unfortunately for what’s-his-name behind the bar, found that look quite appealing.
“You talk to all the patrons like that, or just the pretty ones?” He smirked back in a way he hoped came off as a charming kind of disrespectful. He’d scored earlier that night, which immediately made it a good one; a great one, even, because he hadn’t had to pay. He couldn’t care less what the bartender thought of him.
Still, capitalism didn’t take whether Daniel Molloy’s night was going well into consideration. Money had to change hands before he’d get his drink. Luckily, nowhere did it say it had to be Daniel’s money.
“If you’re not paying there’s the door,” the bartender – something with an F, was it? Fritz? – crossed his arms over his broad chest, tilting his head up to look down at Daniel. Good, yes, poor Danny, surely someone with a good heart and a taste for men his age (and the money to pay for that taste) would take pity on him. Anytime now. The night started on such a high note, don’t fuck it up now, universe.
Daniel hunched his shoulders a bit, lowered his chin to look up at the wall of man in front of him, and waited for someone to buy it. And a drink. It was a stellar performance, if he did say so himself. “I’m waiting for a friend, man,” he protested.
Something-with-an-F opened his mouth to speak, not at all convinced by Daniel’s acting, but he was interrupted by someone slipping into the seat next to the boy and looping a heavy arm around his shoulders – a little too forward, but Daniel had never been known for his survival instincts, particularly with a buzz lending him some more courage he probably didn’t need.
“Put whatever he wants on my tab,” a voice above Daniel’s ear, clearly a smoker and clearly a bit inebriated himself. Daniel could work with that.
The bartender scoffed, but he had no reason not to do as he was told. As he went about making Daniel’s usual – didn’t even ask what he wanted, the asshole – Daniel took his chance to get himself more drinks than one and shifted the puppy eyes to the presence beside him.
He found precisely what he’d been expecting. The man was older, approaching old-enough-to-be-Daniel’s-father territory, which immediately made the boy’s interest spike; he wore a well-loved leather jacket and sunglasses, even though the bar was dark enough on its own. He smelled of cologne and stale cigarette smoke and his hand was feeling up Daniel’s bicep.
All in all, he was too old and too handsy to be anything but bad news. Daniel could smell it on him like a bloodhound, but unfortunately for the remnants of any survival instincts still putting up a fight in his head, danger was his favourite scent on a man.
“What’s a pretty boy like you doin’ here?” The hand travelled down Daniel’s arm, briefly wrapped around his wrist, and landed on his thigh. Another tally for the “why I shouldn’t” column, which, for Daniel, was synonymous with the “why I will” one.
A grasshopper was placed on the bar in front of Daniel; he reached for it, but his new friend was faster, sweeping it out of the boy’s reach.
So it was like that. Okay, Daniel was cool with that, too. He was cool with whatever.
“You know, just looking for some company,” he smiled, tilting himself on his barstool to better see the other man’s face. The arm around his shoulder didn’t allow for much movement; Daniel was cool with that, too. His heart rate spiked, because his body was smarter than him, but he lived for that precise thrill of danger. “I’m Daniel.”
“Mike,” the grasshopper returned to its former place on the bar. A treat. Daniel was so cool with that. “Looks like they know you around here, huh, Danny?”
“Daniel,” the reporter corrected habitually, though without much hope the correction would even register. That was fine. It’d be less fine if he was sober, but he wasn’t, so he could be Danny. “Ha, yeah, this is a good place to meet interesting people. I’m a reporter, you know? I like to talk to people, the kind that no one really thinks about interviewing, get their stories out there. The real stuff, you get me?”
Every word was in one ear and out the other, it seemed; it often was, when he met people like this, and that was okay. Neither of them had any delusions about what this was.
“Oh yeah? Wow,” Mike said, his tone akin to a busy parent being shown a particularly hideous drawing by their child. Daniel, for all his sins, felt himself get a little hotter. “Anyway, how about I get you somethin’ stronger? You need to loosen up a little, Danny.”
The hand on Daniel’s thigh squeezed as if to prove the point. Yeah, he was a bit tense, and he had good reason to be, but he was really good at ignoring that. No one was better at getting themselves in completely avoidable situations than Daniel Molloy, bright young reporter and a fuck you to survival of the fittest.
“Yeah, man. I’d like that.”
—
It didn’t end with one drink. If someone asked Daniel how many it had ended with, the best he could do would be a rough estimate; by the second Mike’s hand had skated upwards on his thigh just shy of indecently, by the fourth he was taking another bump in the bathroom, an unknown number after that there was cold air on his face and the bar around him went quiet. Or not the bar. They weren’t in the bar anymore. Yeah, they’d made it outside, and there was a hand on his ass, electric even through his trousers. That was nice. That felt good. He was in that space between fear and desire that got his head spinning the best way; half like he was invincible, half like he was a prey animal quivering in its den. God help him, this would be the end of him someday, but what a way to go.
The hand on his ass squeezed; ah, yes, Mike. Daniel had been talking, he realised, running his mouth like always, and his companion was getting impatient.
Fulfilling his side of the social contract. Nothing for free and all of that.
“Yours or mine?” he asked, letting himself be lead. He didn't know where, but that was a side thought. “Mine's close by. We can…”
Daniel wasn't allowed to finish, because the next thing he registered was a brick wall scraping the leather on his back and a warm mouth that tasted like something he'll regret pushed against his own, insistent. Stubble scratched his chin; Daniel didn’t really care for the feeling much, but beggars and choosers and all of that, so he was going to power through it. It thrilled him, because it scared him; as if he needed any more proof that he would not survive in the wild.
One of the hands that had been holding – well, pressing – his shoulders into the wall let up, choosing instead to slip underneath his sweater and feel up his torso, from the hem up to his chest; it stopped at his sternum once it bumped the locket safely tucked against Daniel’s chest. It gave a little tug, which the boy could get behind, and then pulled away to reach into his collar. All of a sudden Daniel was no longer in the mood to get behind anything.
“Pretty thing you've got there, Danny,” his new friend rumbled, pulling the locket – and Daniel along with it – into the light, which bounced off of the elaborate carvings. He marvelled at it for a bit, although Daniel wasn't sure if he was admiring the jewellery itself or trying to figure out how a clearly broke junkie could afford such a beautiful piece of art; whatever was going through his head, Daniel suddenly didn't like it. Yeah, he'd been trying to get the gatekeeping, creepy-eyed, gorgeous son of a bitch out of his head since he ran away from their disgustingly cozy apartment Armand had set up, but that didn't mean he wanted some guy's grubby fingers all over the locket. He felt… Territorial, would probably be the best way to describe it. Like Armand's weird scent-claiming thing had rubbed off on him and now this guy was getting his scent all over the thing and Daniel would have to go rub it over Armand to make it right again, which he didn't want to do, on account of the gatekeeping asshole part.
“Okay, you know what, man, I think I left something at the bar, I'm just gonna…” A good effort on Daniel’s part, as far as he was concerned, but his attempt to move away resulted only in putting more tension on the delicate golden chain. Daniel couldn't afford to get the thing repaired, nor did he really want to part with it, if he was being completely honest (and he was, it was bad practice for a journalist to lie, even to himself). So, he stayed put and attempted to ease the tension (the metaphorical one) with a nervous chuckle.
“But we were just starting to have fun,” Mike said, and it was funny that he'd say that, because Daniel had just stopped having fun. Perspective changes everything. “Come on, let's get a cab. I want to see how you look wearing nothing but that necklace.”
If Daniel was interviewing Mike he might have used that sentence as an example to his readers. How not to flirt, a class by Daniel Molloy. Lesson one: that. Don't be that guy. Alas, Daniel was not interviewing Mike, and the odds of a twenty year old dropout of selling any classes to anyone weren't that high either, so he had no choice but to nod and politely and exemplarily follow Mike toward the street.
That decision was the last Daniel Molloy would remember of the night.
—
Waking up was a surprisingly pleasant ordeal, which was out of the norm enough that it immediately put Daniel on edge. His head did not hurt, his stomach was free of any swooping bouts of nausea and his vision was immediately clear; that could mean only one thing. Daniel has died.
“Oh, no, beloved. Banish the thought.”
Correction: it would have been better if Daniel had died.
“Do you have any concept of what ‘I'm leaving’ means, by any chance? Or are those words just a bunch of sounds to you?”
Armand, perched atop the bed to Daniel’s left, made that beautifully wounded expression of his that would send painters and poets into fits of psychosis resulting in masterpieces. Daniel pulled a face that would, well, certainly not do that to anyone.
“I did allow you your space, Daniel. You are being unfair.” Armand shifted, which made an object he was holding catch the light and attract Daniel’s attention; upon inspection, it turned out to be a spoon. In Armand's other hand was a plastic container. A plastic ice-cream container, for full journalistic integrity.
Daniel lifted himself up on his elbows and licked his lips; surely enough, they tasted sweet, sweet with hints of…
“Boss,” Daniel started, very slowly. “Did you put your blood in the ice-cream?”
Armand's expression didn't change much, but at the same time, his entire being seemed to radiate pride at his accomplishment. It was the look-beloved-the-rat-exploded kind of pride, which did make some nausea swim in Daniel’s stomach.
“Okay, pause, better question: did you put anything other than your blood in the ice-cream?”
Armand, probably – definitely – fishing around in Daniel's head, had the audacity to look offended, as if him feeding Daniel things not meant for human consumption was unheard of and a hurtful accusation to make. Which it was not, for the record. Daniel was his lover and his pet and his favourite test subject, like one of those white bunnies they tested medicine on. Only that this bunny technically had the free will to leave at any time and chose not to, because some of the crossed wires in his brain did actually enjoy the torment his devil subjected him to.
“You would expect such cruelty of me?” Armand, famously capable of great cruelty, asked with all the air of an innocent. All the while, he scooped another spoonful of the pinkish treat; Daniel, of course, obediently opened his mouth. It wasn't his fault the blood felt so good, what was he supposed to do? Say no? As if he's ever said no to any substances. “I have worked hard on this recipe, Daniel. I wished to sustain your flesh and lift your spirits, have I not succeeded? Do you not feel invigorated?”
“Yeah. Hey, how the fuck did I get here?” Daniel licked his lips, looking around the room; it was their apartment, unchanged from how Daniel had left it when he ran out on Armand a few weeks prior.
There went pretending Armand didn’t exist. And Daniel had been doing so well! He'd only had a few nightmares about eyes the colour of setting suns staring at him from a shadow person in the corner. Oh, actually… “Follow up, did you stalk me?”
Armand took a moment to think about his answer, which was enough to give Daniel more than an inkling that whatever was about to come out of his mouth would be a lie. If not a straight-up lie, at least a twisting of the truth. So, yes, he did stalk Daniel, and at least some of the dreams were actually just him functioning perfectly well, thank you very much. Well, except for the part where being stalked after clearly saying the words ‘I'm leaving you’ (which he did, he remembers that, he will not let Armand convince him otherwise) made him feel special and loved instead of horrified and violated like it probably should have.
Speaking of horrified and violated.
“Last question–”
“Your last question will come at the moment of your death, beloved, and not a second sooner.”
“Fuck you too!” Daniel replied cheerfully. “Okay, whatever, question. What happened to the guy I was with? Did you eat him?”
Armand's eyes were very round and very unblinking. Did he not get dry eyes? Or was that not a thing for vampires?
“Where do you think I got so much blood?”
Daniel was definitely nauseous now. Yep. Fuck that guy, Mason or whatever his name was, but there should be some warning on the package. Contains organic, free range human blood or whatever.
“Did you…”
“... That was a joke,” Armand explained patiently, clearly pleased with himself. “I did kill him, of course—”
“No, yeah, of course.”
“—but there is no blood but mine in the ice-cream. Although I do wonder…”
Daniel did not pay attention to what his favourite mass murderer was saying, choosing instead to take inventory of his body and any potential marks left behind by the part of the night after he blacked out but before Armand came to get him. A bruise on his left wrist, hand-shaped, already on the yellowish stage of healing thanks to the blood-infused breakfast in bed; no soreness anywhere vital, slightly elevated heart rate, a bit of a dry mouth. All in order.
Armand sat patiently through Daniel's self-examination, watching with those tiger's eyes with an easy smile curling his pretty mouth. He looked so incredibly pleased with himself, undoubtedly waiting for Daniel to thank him for saving the night and going out of his way to make him world's most fucked-up sweet treat. The journalist had no intentions of either.
“So,” he grabbed the spoon from Armand's hand and pointed it at him, accusatory. “You can't just do that, man.”
Armand's head tilted to the side, as though he wasn't really following. Daniel would gladly help him follow, though.
“I said I'm leaving. You can't just… You can't just show up out of nowhere when you decide I've had enough enrichment and bring me back to my cage, boss, I'm not a fucking bunny rabbit.”
“You were still wearing the locket,” Armand's voice was small; he sat perfectly still, aside from his thumb rubbing at the inside of his palm.
“So?” Daniel shrugged; it was a pretty piece. Who cared?
“So you did not give up my protection, yet you're angry that I offered it.”
Fuck those vampires, actually. Daniel’s never been the kind to get locked up in one place, with one person; who was this asshole to put a collar on him and come collect him when he decided playtime was over? What was he, a puppy?
(True that there was a part of Daniel that preened under the implication. He shoved it down to be dealt with once he wasn’t pissed at Armand.)
Before Daniel could verbalise anything of the confusing jamble of thoughts flooding his brain, Armand continued: “you cannot blame me for defending you from danger when you called out to me through our bond, Daniel. You know I grant your every wish, beloved.”
Armand's hand was on Daniel’s cheek now, cold and firm as marble. His touch was a soothing balm, as it always was, grounding his minion in place and keeping him still for that sweet melody of Armand's voice to pour into his ears. Daniel did not remember calling out for Armand, but maybe he had? It wouldn't be the first time that he did something while drunk and/or high that he did not remember the morning after. Maybe he did ask Armand to come get him…
“Stop that,” Daniel abruptly hissed, jerking his head back from Armand's hold. “Stop. I'm not falling for your merciful death routine again, asshole, I know all your tricks now! I know you're lying. You're a fucking liar, Armand.”
Armand, contrary to what Daniel expected, didn't put on his preferred victim costume and blink his giant, sad eyes at him. No; there was suddenly a glint in his gaze, a subtle curve to his mouth. He was looking at Daniel less like a wounded hare and more like a hound chasing said hare down.
“Perhaps,” he acquiesced, his eclectic accent somehow shaping the word to be particularly pleasing to the ear. That was Armand's problem. He was particularly pleasing to many, at least upon first glance. The satisfaction rate tended to fall rapidly once he had his teeth in their jugular. “But that is why you want me, Daniel, is it not? It thrills you to discover my truths. You chase them down like a dog with a bone, and as long as there are any left to discover, you will not leave my orbit.
That one was on Daniel. He'd forgotten how far from well adjusted Armand was.
Aiming to fix the misunderstanding, it was Daniel’s turn to grasp Armand; only that he firmly gripped the vampire by the shoulders and gave him a little shake. (What was a little shake to a four hundred something year old vampire anyway?)
“Have you ever considered I might just like you?”
Armand blinked owlishly; he had, clearly, not considered it.
“You piss me off. Yeah. I'm mad at you right now. Yeah! You might be lying, that too, but fuck! You think I'm with you because I wanna dig around in your brain like you do with me?”
“... Do you not?”
“Touché. I do. But did you seriously think that was the only reason I'm with you? You think I let you feed me your blended concoctions and wake me up at the ass crack of dawn and dress me like I'm way richer than I actually am just ‘cause I want a fucking story?”
Armand went very, very still. He was so still for so long Daniel began to get concerned he'd somehow broken the creature; before he could get seriously worried, thank fuck, Armand moved.
Okay, ‘Armand moved’ wasn't the best way to put it. One second he was perfectly still, the next – with no in-between – his lips were on Daniel’s, his hands grasping at the mortal's arms, his shoulders… Shaking? Yes, he was shaking, a faint vibration that carried across his entire frame. Daniel didn’t get a chance to ask what that was, exactly, before a noise Armand breathed into his lips cleared it all up.
The vampire was laughing.
Daniel, momentarily puzzled, did the only thing he could think of doing; he began kissing back, letting Armand's laughter infect him until they were both giggling like maniacs into each other’s lips between progressively hungrier kisses.
“You're so fucking strange,” Daniel whispered. His response was a giggle – a boyish, carefree giggle – and the sweet burn of Armand's blood on his tongue.
“How I adore you, beloved.”