Chapter Text
The story Daniel Molloy would later tell himself was a simple one - he awoke in a drug den he did not remember entering.
The mind, when frightened enough, was remarkably cooperative. It did not require truth, only something familiar.
A small room in a building that had old smoke and damp wood trapped in it's air. A mattress that someone else had used and frayed. A door that didn't quite close.
That was where Armand had left him.
But Armand hadn't left him.
The shadow of him lingered there by a window, obscured by the low light of an alleyway stuffed behind and the fluttering haze of a den full of addicts. There was work to be done. A man in his own home to be taken care of but Armand remained - remarkably still.
Daniel's eyes opened after some time. That same haze of substances that warped his perception. Armand had made sure of that.
The boy adjusted quickly. He seemed confused but not entirely surprised. Pushing himself up, his eyes seemed to scan for any familiarity. Any one face he recognised. His gaze darted from person to person - some sat on stools and crates, joints in hand, others asleep, face down, in various states. He looked to become more frantic as the reckoning of his own solitude dawned on him.
Armand's expression remained unchanged.
Two men in the corner began to laugh and Daniel's attention was caught - like he'd spotted a lifeline in whatever ocean of disarray he'd been drowned in.
"What-" the word was barely audible and the thought ended there. It was fascinating to see it in his eyes, the precise moment the attempt was deemed fruitless and the thought died.
One of Daniel's hands found the wall, a way to steady himself. One could only imagine the room would be spinning, given the trials his mind had been put through in the last twenty four hours. And so he lowered, his other hand finding a crate that he eventually sat on, eyes never taking their break from surveying the room.
And there they waited. The boy, for the world to settle enough that he could make it back home and the Devil, for whatever the boy would choose to do next. Every impercetable twitch of a muscle, every change in the direction of his eyeline, every hair on his arm that rose and fell, Armand noticed.
But finally, when the first hints of evening cooled the pavement, Daniel Molly stood. Hand still pressing against the wall as he muttered an apology to the air and pushed his way towards the door.
The streets were mostly quiet at this time but the soft hum of ambient city noise offered an observer some needed ambiguity and the few people still wandering the streets provided a reasonable concealment.
In all the time the boy stumbled home, he only looked in Armand's direction once. Not at him, through him. The erasing of his memory had been successful.
Though, even if one sighting would raise no concerns, in future a more careful approach would be required. Memory and recognition were finicky things. When there being a future to this had been decided upon, only Armand would know.
Daniel's eyes seemed to move over the end of the street without pause, searching for something he couldn't quite name. And when he finally turned left, Armand took root in his mind. In an impalpable way that the boy would never notice, even sober - digging just enough for the route to Daniel's apartment.
Left had been correct.
Had it not been perhaps Armand would've guided him back. Fulfilled his promise to Louis to let the boy live, it was a conceivable plot.
The correct thing to do would've been to leave. The mortal would return to his apartment. He would continue his life. He would marry. He would age. He would eventually forget the strange blank space in his mind entirely.
But as the reddening sky began to dim into night, Armand watched him stumble towards the door to his apartment building and still remained - attention caught by the waythat, even beneath the distortion plaguing his head, recognition and relief clawed their way to Daniel's eyes, for just a fleeting moment.
The boy, after a failed attempt, slid his key into the door. He took a final look around the now empty street. Not a soul in sight, not by the time he'd turned his head.
And so he entered, ready to sleep off whatever wild few days he'd lived to forget.