He has, himself, really only three friends here, which in the grand scheme of his life is probably more friends than he's usually had at one time. So, really, he's doing quite well. But it's easy to forget amidst everything else.
"And I regret it's been so long since we've last spoken. Funny how time slips away so easily in a place like this."
Lestat doesn't mind naming names. He hasn't made promises to anyone, but he doesn't want to cause any undue stress or something similar to it. Instead, he simply gives Neal a light and genuinely fond smile, then holds out a hand.
Neal blinks in surprise at the request, setting his wine on what would be the kitchen table if he actually had a kitchen. He comes over to Lestat, holding his bandaged hand out palm-up, intrigued and a little apprehensive. A little hopeful for that closeness that comes with Lestat feeding.
Even Lestat can't deny the little, delightful tingle of tension at the closeness. People may choose to see what he did as something against Neal, but Lestat wouldn't choose to turn someone if he didn't feel an attachment. Certainly he wouldn't choose to do it if he felt their body couldn't handle the change. And as he unwraps Neal's hand, the scent of blood grows a little stronger, and it reminds Lestat, too, of how it felt to feed on him.
"Nothing untoward, I assure you."
Lestat holds Neal's hand in one of his own, wound facing up so it can be seen. With the thumb of his other hand, he carefully cuts open the index finger next to it, and with a degree of tenderness he smoothes his blood over the wound.
"Now my own healing capabilities are back, this should help."
Even as he speaks, the wound starts to rapidly heal, slowly fading.
Neal tries to ignore his little flicker of disappointment, and he's quickly distracted from it by a jolt of surprise. He makes a little noise of protest as Lestat cuts himself, then goes quiet in confusion at the spreading of the blood. It makes his skin prickle with goosebumps, not in the best way, but that moment of unease vanishes into shock and wonder again as his skin knits itself back together. In a few moments there's nothing but a fading bit of scar tissue and some flecks of blood. Yeah, he's seen this already, felt it already, the way his palm tingles as it heals. He's glad he can still be in awe of it.
It's his genuine feeling, but he won't deny that it also shows some sort of good will. Not to Neal, Lestat knows he has nothing to prove to Neal, but given that Shaw was apparently quick to blame him for whatever happened, healing Neal flies in the face of those expectations.
He flexes his fingers, studying his palm for another moment before he looks up at Lestat and smiles a little.
“More or less. Off-center, confused, and I think I might have broken my warden, but…” He meant the last part as a joke. Still, he glances away from meeting Lestat’s eyes. “I know you’re not a fan, but I thought we were friends. Malcolm and I.”
Which has, at least, been Lestat's experience over his many years and so he's hardly surprised. In a way, a part of him is delighted that Malcolm's somehow been taken down a bit in Neal's esteem.
"I know they do," Neal admits softly. He looks at Lestat again, weighing his words carefully. He desperately wants to confide in someone, and Lestat feels safer at the moment even than Norton. Part of him doesn't think Norton would tell Malcolm anything said in confidence. Part of him whispers that Norton is a Warden, and Lestat is a safer bet in that regard.
"I don't know how to blame anyone else." As soon as the words are out, he half-laughs. "Pathetic, I know."
There's something brief in Lestat's expression that hints at empathy there. He's blamed himself for a long time about letting down others, he understands. It's replaced with a soft frown and a light tsk.
"There is nothing pathetic about you, Neal. I've rarely met a man as singular as you, and I've met many people in my life."
People really need to stop telling him that. He's going to start believing it, and that kind of trust cometh before the fall.
It also prompts a reaction that he's never had the good sense to question. He steps close, reaches up to trace his fingers along Lestat's jaw. If Lestat doesn't indicate it's unwelcome, Neal is going to kiss him.
It's certainly welcome, and Lestat isn't so surprised by it. That is to say, he read Neal's intentions well enough as he closed the space, and while Neal isn't a vampire anymore, Lestat thinks there might still be a ghost of some connection between them from that brief turn.
He accepts the warm touch and the familiar press of lips, carefully curling his fingers around the back of Neal's neck.
Neal relaxes into the kiss, sliding his free hand around Lestat's waist. He touches his tongue to the vampire's lips, then deepens the kiss, angling to cut his tongue against one of Lestat's canines.
Far be it from Lestat to stop Neal if that's what he wants. He gets the feeling that Neal is feeling particularly nihilistic right now, but Neal can make his own decisions.
The blood washes over his own tongue. It's a welcome taste after the synthetic bags and Lestat draws Neal closer, tightening the grip on the back of his neck to keep him in place. Two can certainly play this game.
There it is, that little gut-wrench thrill of Lestat manhandling him so easily, and then the rush of the feeding hits. Neal makes a tiny, helpless noise against Lestat's mouth. The little momentary sting across his tongue, the fatigue he'll feel tomorrow, neither consequence holds a candle to the wash of bliss rolling through him. He'd forgotten how good it felt, somehow. How safe, on top of the helpless pleasure. He tilts his head a little, showing a little more skin, offering his neck if the vampire wants a proper bite.
He trusts Lestat to stop before he bleeds too much.
There's a soft huff of breath out his nose, the predatory instinct rising up in him. Logically, reasonably, there's no need to do it. He can foresee the flack he could get for it, but, well ... He can always heal the bite. Just as he'd done with Louis decades ago after that first taste, there was nothing there that gave anything away.
Un petit coup.
Lestat noses down the length of Neal's neck, inhaling the scent of him before his fangs pierce the skin. It's brief, just enough to give Neal the high he's so clearly after and to leave him feeling light-headed but little more.
Neal sinks into the feeling, basking for as long as it lasts. He rides out the initial lightheadedness with his arms around Lestat’s waist and neck. He stays there, face nested against the vampire’s throat. He’d believe it, if Lestat told him they still had some thread of a connection from when he was turned. He’d embrace the idea, truthfully.
Neal exhales softly. “Do you have to stay in your coffin? Is it a… health and safety issue? Or can you stay here tonight?”
Lestat hums thoughtfully in response as he heals up the wound on Neal's neck. He thinks about his mother who preferred to bury herself in nothing but earth each night, or to Louis who sometimes found the coffin too dour and took preference to a bed.
"Preference, I suppose. A habit far older than I."
And coffins provide some degree of safety from the outside world, not only from people but from the elements such as sunlight. There's no need to worry about sunlight on the barge, though. The artificial form of it does nothing to affect him.
Neal exhales softly, drawing back enough to meet Lestat’s eyes. He brushes the man’s hair back, away from his face.
“I want to be clear, I’m not asking for or demanding anything.” A hesitation, then a bit more vulnerability. “I don’t want to be alone at night right now.”
"I'd never accuse you of doing such a thing," he replies, a small, teasing smile on his face.
With a kiss to the corner of Neal's mouth, he gives the man a nudge towards something to sit on, then finds the wine Neal had been drinking to hand it to him. It's not much, but it'll do, and Lestat had been fortified on wine after being fed on. Which might not be saying much, considering that wine was what everyone drank in those days.
Neal, perhaps unadvisedly, drains the glass, setting it aside for the moment. He shifts on the couch to lie against Lestat, lounging on the other man the way they did when Neal was in his cabin during the warden flood. “Is it part of the process, the…”
It’s strange, how much more comfortable he is with innuendo than actual discussion. He closes his eyes, resting his ear against Lestat’s chest so he can hear the vampire’s heartbeat. “How good it feels when you grab me?”
That gets an amused look from Lestat, which, thankfully, Neal can't see. He lays a hand on the back of Neal's head, absently cradling him close as he muses over the question.
"I think that is simply something you enjoy, mon beau."
Sometimes a nearly-37-year-old-man is also a dumb baby who has never really considered his own preferences because he subconsciously views all relationships as transactional. Two things can be true.
As it is, he's quiet for a long, surprised moment, and then just says, "Oh."
Neal stretches out a little on the couch, settling against Lestat, thinking they should perhaps have taken care of clothes before this point. He's comfortable now. He shifts to toy with the buttons of Lestat's shirt that are closest to his face. "Why do you think you're an inmate? Why do you think you got picked to be here, instead of someone else? Someone asked me that recently, and I realized I hadn't really thought about it. The 'why me' part."
"I think that anybody here could give you a reason as to why I'm in an inmate."
There's not really a mystery there, and Lestat has little issue facing that fact. He's killed hundreds over the years, he takes a certain degree of pleasure it in from time to time, and he shows little remorse for his actions. His warden insists there's more to it than just that, but Lestat doesn't let those conversations get too far.
"The base assumption would be that something about us must be fixed and can be fixed. I don't think I need that."
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He has, himself, really only three friends here, which in the grand scheme of his life is probably more friends than he's usually had at one time. So, really, he's doing quite well. But it's easy to forget amidst everything else.
"And I regret it's been so long since we've last spoken. Funny how time slips away so easily in a place like this."
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He hesitates, then sighs and bites the bullet. "Who asked you to check on me?"
He has a suspicion, having had a moment to consider it, but he's not going to accuse without proof.
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Lestat doesn't mind naming names. He hasn't made promises to anyone, but he doesn't want to cause any undue stress or something similar to it. Instead, he simply gives Neal a light and genuinely fond smile, then holds out a hand.
"Give me your hand. The bandaged one."
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Neal blinks in surprise at the request, setting his wine on what would be the kitchen table if he actually had a kitchen. He comes over to Lestat, holding his bandaged hand out palm-up, intrigued and a little apprehensive. A little hopeful for that closeness that comes with Lestat feeding.
“What are you going to do?”
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"Nothing untoward, I assure you."
Lestat holds Neal's hand in one of his own, wound facing up so it can be seen. With the thumb of his other hand, he carefully cuts open the index finger next to it, and with a degree of tenderness he smoothes his blood over the wound.
"Now my own healing capabilities are back, this should help."
Even as he speaks, the wound starts to rapidly heal, slowly fading.
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"Thank you."
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It's his genuine feeling, but he won't deny that it also shows some sort of good will. Not to Neal, Lestat knows he has nothing to prove to Neal, but given that Shaw was apparently quick to blame him for whatever happened, healing Neal flies in the face of those expectations.
"Are you feeling more like yourself again?"
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“More or less. Off-center, confused, and I think I might have broken my warden, but…” He meant the last part as a joke. Still, he glances away from meeting Lestat’s eyes. “I know you’re not a fan, but I thought we were friends. Malcolm and I.”
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Which has, at least, been Lestat's experience over his many years and so he's hardly surprised. In a way, a part of him is delighted that Malcolm's somehow been taken down a bit in Neal's esteem.
"You shouldn't blame yourself."
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"I don't know how to blame anyone else." As soon as the words are out, he half-laughs. "Pathetic, I know."
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"There is nothing pathetic about you, Neal. I've rarely met a man as singular as you, and I've met many people in my life."
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It also prompts a reaction that he's never had the good sense to question. He steps close, reaches up to trace his fingers along Lestat's jaw. If Lestat doesn't indicate it's unwelcome, Neal is going to kiss him.
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He accepts the warm touch and the familiar press of lips, carefully curling his fingers around the back of Neal's neck.
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The blood washes over his own tongue. It's a welcome taste after the synthetic bags and Lestat draws Neal closer, tightening the grip on the back of his neck to keep him in place. Two can certainly play this game.
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He trusts Lestat to stop before he bleeds too much.
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Un petit coup.
Lestat noses down the length of Neal's neck, inhaling the scent of him before his fangs pierce the skin. It's brief, just enough to give Neal the high he's so clearly after and to leave him feeling light-headed but little more.
Don't say he never does anything for you, Neal.
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Neal sinks into the feeling, basking for as long as it lasts. He rides out the initial lightheadedness with his arms around Lestat’s waist and neck. He stays there, face nested against the vampire’s throat. He’d believe it, if Lestat told him they still had some thread of a connection from when he was turned. He’d embrace the idea, truthfully.
Neal exhales softly. “Do you have to stay in your coffin? Is it a… health and safety issue? Or can you stay here tonight?”
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"Preference, I suppose. A habit far older than I."
And coffins provide some degree of safety from the outside world, not only from people but from the elements such as sunlight. There's no need to worry about sunlight on the barge, though. The artificial form of it does nothing to affect him.
"I'll stay."
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“I want to be clear, I’m not asking for or demanding anything.” A hesitation, then a bit more vulnerability. “I don’t want to be alone at night right now.”
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With a kiss to the corner of Neal's mouth, he gives the man a nudge towards something to sit on, then finds the wine Neal had been drinking to hand it to him. It's not much, but it'll do, and Lestat had been fortified on wine after being fed on. Which might not be saying much, considering that wine was what everyone drank in those days.
"I'll gladly keep you company as you rest."
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It’s strange, how much more comfortable he is with innuendo than actual discussion. He closes his eyes, resting his ear against Lestat’s chest so he can hear the vampire’s heartbeat. “How good it feels when you grab me?”
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"I think that is simply something you enjoy, mon beau."
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As it is, he's quiet for a long, surprised moment, and then just says, "Oh."
Neal stretches out a little on the couch, settling against Lestat, thinking they should perhaps have taken care of clothes before this point. He's comfortable now. He shifts to toy with the buttons of Lestat's shirt that are closest to his face. "Why do you think you're an inmate? Why do you think you got picked to be here, instead of someone else? Someone asked me that recently, and I realized I hadn't really thought about it. The 'why me' part."
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There's not really a mystery there, and Lestat has little issue facing that fact. He's killed hundreds over the years, he takes a certain degree of pleasure it in from time to time, and he shows little remorse for his actions. His warden insists there's more to it than just that, but Lestat doesn't let those conversations get too far.
"The base assumption would be that something about us must be fixed and can be fixed. I don't think I need that."
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