Chapter Text
Dubai, June 2022
Daniel was lying on his back in his bed in the Dubai penthouse and he was spiraling.
When he’d first realized he might be missing more vampire-related memories than just the night of that first interview, he’d been thinking along the lines of, you know, a couple of days. A week at most.
He hadn’t expected…this. Over a decade of bizarre cat-and-mouse, master-and-servant fucked up gothic romance with a goddamn vampire.
With Armand.
*
“Why don’t I remember?” Daniel had asked. It couldn’t just be the drugs. He had initially thought it had been, but then there’d been a little too much talk about the state of his memory from both his vampire hosts for that to be all there was to it.
Louis had gone off somewhere to freak out about his own memories some more, so it was just Daniel and Armand on opposite sides of the dining table. Daniel was supposed to be eating some ridiculous haute cuisine thing that didn’t actually look edible. Armand’s section of the table was empty. It seemed he didn’t do human blood bags or live foxes. Daniel wanted to be thankful for that but it probably just meant that Armand didn’t share Louis’ qualms about killing people, which… He kinda wished Louis was still with them.
Armand stared at Daniel for a while without blinking, then said, with an expression on his face Daniel couldn’t make any sense of, “It was better that you didn’t remember.”
“Right,” Daniel scoffed with more bravado than he felt. “So I wouldn’t expose vampirekind’s secrets to the world and have them all declare holy war on Louis?”
Armand waited a long time before answering. Again. It was already starting to get on Daniel’s nerves. Like the not blinking and the staring and the general air of superiority Armand had been radiating since he’d thrown off his Rashid persona.
It didn’t help that part of Daniel thought Armand was absolutely smoking hot. And it definitely didn’t help that that was probably because Armand was acting like Daniel was beneath him.
“Among other things,” Armand eventually said, like that was any kind of answer.
“So, you going to tell me those other reasons?”
Another pause. “I don’t think I will.”
Fucking infuriating. Daniel knocked back his no doubt ridiculously expensive wine in one go.
“I suppose it was you, then? Who made me forget? I don’t see Louis…” Daniel waved his hands next to his face in a gesture that was meant to convey the idea of vampire mind manipulation.
“Yes,” Armand said. Daniel still couldn’t get a proper read on his facial expression. “Though you shouldn’t underestimate Louis’ abilities. He did set your tapes on fire.”
True. But Louis had been in the process of killing him back in San Francisco – a much easier way of ensuring Daniel didn’t tell anyone his story – when Armand had apparently swooped in to save his life. That didn’t make any sense. Armand didn’t strike Daniel as the type of vampire to lose sleep over one more dead idiot.
“I’m not,” Armand said. “Usually.”
“Stay out of my head.”
Armand shrugged, like he didn’t really care about what was going on in Daniel’s head anyway, but there was something... Daniel couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but he wasn’t buying Armand’s blasé attitude.
“Can you reverse it?” Daniel asked. “Give me those memories back? You can’t just say shit like that and leave me guessing.” He speared a piece of meat to his fork and ate it, resenting the fact that it was absolutely delicious.
“Perhaps. The extent to which…” Armand sighed.
“The extent to which what?” Daniel demanded, pointing his fork at Armand.
Daniel was scared of Armand, a lot more scared than he was of Louis. But he was also pissed they’d been lying to him – were still keeping things from him – and that propelled him forward. “Now I really want those memories back.”
Armand shook his head. “You don’t know what you’re asking, Daniel. You can’t know what you’re ask – ”
“Yeah, because you made me forget!” Daniel was now so angry he didn’t even register that Armand had called him by his first name instead of his usual ‘Mr. Molloy’.
Armand let out another long-suffering sigh, which Daniel thought was pretty rich considering all the bullshit he and Louis had been putting Daniel through for the last week. “You might not like what you remember,” Armand said, emphasizing nearly every word.
Daniel had zero doubt about that, but – “Then I’ll just have to deal with that. It’s not your decision to make.”
Armand pressed his lips tightly together and looked away from Daniel for the first time since they’d started this conversation. Another sigh later, he fixed Daniel with that dark orange stare again and said, “I can try.”
“Good.” Daniel set down his fork with a little more force than was strictly necessary. “Well, get on with it then.”
Armand actually had the nerve to roll his eyes. “It doesn’t work like that, Daniel. I’m not actually going to…” He waved his hands next to his own face in an exaggerated version of Daniel’s earlier gesture.
“Well, then how does it work?”
Armand stood up. “Are you certain you want this?”
“Yes.”
Armand nodded, then suddenly he was standing next to Daniel. “It’s easier when you’re asleep,” he said.
Armand put his hand on Daniel’s forehead and Daniel slept.
When he woke up he was in his bed, wearing only his boxers and T-shirt.
And he remembered.
*
The first thing Daniel remembered was his last night with Armand, back in 1985. They had had a huge fight. The same old dance, only worse than ever before. Daniel was killing himself, Armand had said, running off, not looking after himself, too much drugs and liquor, not enough food or sleep. Daniel had yelled at Armand that he knew exactly how he could keep Daniel from ever running away again, from ever dying, he just didn’t have the guts to do it.
“No, Daniel, I wouldn’t do that to someone I loved.”
“If you really loved me, you would give it to me.”
“It’s because I love you that I won’t.”
Daniel had thrown something. Both of them had cried.
“You would hate me.”
“I hate you now! Why don’t you just kill me?”
“There’s no need; if you continue on this path, you’ll be dead within a week.”
There had been a strange kind of resolve in Armand’s eyes just before Daniel had stormed off.
The next day Daniel had woken up in rehab. It was a nice place, but not too nice for him to have checked himself in. And he was fully convinced that he had. Because that was on all the paperwork. And he felt really determined to get clean. And he didn’t remember Armand existed.
Then the other memories had all come flooding back almost at once, making Daniel feel like he would explode. Or implode. Or puke.
And now he was staring at the ceiling of the guestroom, having a full-blown existential crisis.
The weird thing – or maybe the clever thing, but Daniel wasn’t ready to give Armand any kind of credit for this nonsense just yet – was that Daniel had actually always remembered a lot of what he’d been up to in the seventies and early eighties. There had been gaps in his recollection, but he had never doubted that those were caused by him snorting, smoking and/or injecting every type of drugs he could get his hands on for 12 years.
He remembered a summer in southern Italy, reading, writing, feeling like something was missing. Paris, Amsterdam, Atlanta. Art galleries, movie theaters. A Halloween party in Manhattan, wearing real snake leather cowboy boots and a Stetson.
He just hadn’t remembered the fact that Armand had been there, too.
Now Armand was in nearly every memory he had from that time period.
Armand watching Daniel take that first tentative bite of squid ink paella. Armand literally picking Daniel up from the gutter that one time he’d been thrown from the Firebird for getting into a drunken fight with a guy over some other guy. Armand in an armchair, staring, while that cute curvy redhead from the laundromat sat on Daniel’s face.
There were new memories, too. Or rather, things he hadn’t remembered at all until now. Things that wouldn’t have made sense if Daniel had remembered them without Armand being there.
Armand tucking him into a huge bed. Armand breaking some guy’s arm because he wouldn’t stop coming on to Daniel when Armand had already told him No (that one filled Daniel with all kinds of warm feelings that were probably very unhealthy). Armand looking very small while he slept in Daniel’s arms on the floor of some fancy kitchen. Their fancy kitchen.
Armand’s fangs in Daniel’s neck being the best feeling ever – miles to Saturn and back better than Mexican black tar – because Armand loved him and he loved Armand and he had never felt closer to anyone else and this was all he needed and how it was supposed to be.
Present-day Daniel rubbed both his hands over his face and felt like he would explode, implode or puke again. He turned to his side and curled up into himself, his hands still over his eyes.
And of course there was all the sex.
Holy shit, they’d had a lot of sex.
And not just with each other. There’d been loads of other people involved. Guys, girls, people whose gender Daniel didn’t know. But Armand had always been there, more often than not just sitting off to the side, watching and giving orders.
Daniel tried really hard not to think about it but, fuck, they’d had a lot of sex. And it had all been so intense.
When it had been just the two of them, that was when things had gotten really freaky. There’d been collars and shit. Daniel had crawled on the floor for this asshole and loved every second of it.
And if the earth could swallow him up right now, that would be great, thanks.
Daniel threw aside the covers, stumbled to the bathroom and splashed cold water onto his face. After he’d dried off, he stared into the mirror and wondered who the fuck he was looking at. Yesterday he would’ve said Daniel Molloy, two-time Pulitzer prize winner, grumpy old asshole, crap father, crappier husband, a mostly-recovered addict who had mostly convinced himself he was straight.
And now he was…what? Daniel Molloy, two-time Pulitzer prize winner, grumpy old asshole, crap father, crappier husband, mostly-recovered addict, very solidly bisexual (or maybe pan?) with a body count that would leave a porn star reeling. And former vampire’s plaything.
Or maybe ‘vampire’s whore’ would be a better description.
Jesus Christ.
He’d literally called Armand Louis’ kept boy to his face and now it turned out that… He was going to be sick. He turned around and hung over the toilet for a good minute but nothing happened. He closed the lid and sat down. The plastic was cold against his thighs, his hands shaking like they hadn’t in days.
He needed a drink. A really stiff one.
There was a tiny fridge in the guestroom but there wasn’t any booze in it. His nightstand had a button on it that Rashid – Armand – had said Daniel could press if he needed anything. He’d used it once, just after he got here, to ask for some painkillers, which he’d apparently forgotten to pack. And then Armand had shown up all, “Of course, Mr. Molloy,” and “Do you need anything else, Mr. Molloy?” and “I’m definitely just some human kid who wears these gloves for pandemic reasons, not to hide my vampire claws, and I’m not wearing contacts that hide my crazy orange eyes that would have you on your knees sucking dick in a second, Mr. Molloy.”
So he was obviously never pressing that button again. He wasn’t going to summon that little shit to his bedroom so he could be all smug and have Daniel on his knees sucking dick in a second.
But he really wanted that drink.
(And he kinda wanted that dick but shut up because no he didn’t.)
Daniel groaned.
Shit shit fuck fuck shit.
He stood up, lifted the lid and hung above the toilet for a few more minutes.
He should just run. Get his shit and get out of here. Or leave his shit, just get his passport. Forget about the interview, the book. Forget about Louis and above all forget about Armand.
Armand with his curls and his smooth, cold skin. Those fiery eyes. His soft, strong, punishing, caressing hands. The infuriating way in which he would just sit there, not blinking, not giving Daniel what he wanted. His commanding voice, that accent that was impossible to pin down to a certain country or time period.
Armand, who had always been there to pick him up, clean him up, keep him safe, make him his. His soft, silky, seductive laughter. The way he loved learning new expressions and tinkering with gadgets. His nails, his teeth, the way his mouth felt on Daniel, the way his cock felt in Daniel, Armand’s hand in Daniel’s hair, around his throat –
“Fucking hell!” Daniel yelled, and then he really did throw up.
*
When he had finished puking his guts out, Daniel flushed the toilet and let himself slide down onto the floor. He rolled onto his back and just lay there for a while. The natural stone tiles felt cool against his skin.
It was nice.
Maybe he should just stay right here on the bathroom floor for a couple of years. Or until Armand picked him up and shoved him into the shower. Scrubbed him down, washed his hair, toweled him off and helped him into the clothes he had laid out for him –
“No, no, nope, absolutely not!” Daniel told himself out loud. He pushed himself up, first onto his hands and knees, then onto his feet. He clutched at the sink and caught his own reflection in the mirror again.
He looked terrible. He really needed that drink. Or a Xanax, or a good, long pull of Armand’s blood. Yeah, that would –
Daniel walked into the shower without taking off his shirt or boxers and turned it on full blast.