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WHO: Ghost (

badfeyth) & Lestat (

perfectdevil)
WHAT: A glamrock vampire and an isekai protagonist walk into a shopping mall and lord only knows what happens next.
WHERE: District 2, the shopping mall
WHEN: Early September
WARNINGS: Extremely bad vampire jokes are a certainty, everything else will be warned for in comment headers as appropriate.

[Ghost has already thought of three vampire jokes, all terrible, by the time she disembarks from the subway terminal and makes the short hike from the station to the shopping mall. It's odd how there's really two things about it that hit nostalgic for her, in that: the thought of readying a complement of jokes for someone, and the atmosphere of the subway system itself. Of course they'd not had such things at the Agency — why would they, as contained and insular as it was — but after a solid decade of wood and stone and birdsong, it's nice to return to the childhood familiarity of smooth metal and disembodied voices directing one this way and that.

(More than once, she finds herself thinking about that questionnaire. Welcome to the City, please complete your orientation, and she can't help but wonder, Who are you? Did someone give you a name? Do you want one?)

Ruminations for another time, she decides. As it is, she finds a convenient bit of landscaping a short distance from the nearest mall entrance and takes a seat, letting her legs dangle with her battered leather satchel at her side as she examines the structure for any sort of distinguishing markings.

Shortly thereafter, a text pops up on Lestat's network device.]

I've arrived. I'm at the west entrance near the decorative hedge.

[There's a brief pause before another one follows, almost like an afterthought.]

Red hair.

[She says, with brevity, like it's something she's used to being identified by. And then, after another equally short interval, a third thought turns up.]

Joke: why do vampires make terrible artists? (Present company excluded, of course.)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ The vampire mind can recall information with almost perfect clarity if enough time is taken to ensure the detail is there; and that is what Lestat is doing now. Of course, he could keep referring to the map and wait for navigating the city to become second-nature, but when so much of his power has been altered and reduced, he's finding himself scooping up every opportunity to use what he has when he can.

That said, when the text pops up on his device, he's certain he knows exactly which hedge she's talking about. Or, at the very least, which way to take to get to the exit in question. With his preternatural speed, he should be there in no time.

He only stops once he's almost there, and uses the hint from the second message she sent to look around for her. He's listening to the heartbeats of the mortals around, too, and is baffled still by the distinct lack of them compared to downtown Miami or the main street in New Orleans. But hers soon cuts through the quiet as though calling to him, and he spots her side profile beside the aforementioned hedge.

That's when he gets the third text, and he chuckles at it as he makes his approach to stand beside her. He's tall, golden haired, with violet sunglasses perched on his nose, and wearing a ridiculous outfit of burnished velvet. ]

I don't know, chérie, why do vampires make terrible artists?

[ He smiles pleasantly, not bothering to hide his fangs, and gives her a little bow of his head. ]

[Vampires come in all shapes, sizes, and proclivities; that much, Ghost has long since grown accustomed to. Tempting though it might be to generalize in theory, it's often a folly in practice — a rookie mistake that she's seen more than one hapless adventurer fall prey to over the years, thinking that a base understanding of a meager few essentials would be sufficient to carry them through, and finding themselves proven wrong in the worst of ways. More reasonable, by contrast, to build at least a base profile from observations, and flesh it out with assumptions only once she's got a firm foundation to build on.

To wit: this is the vampire Lestat. His conduct on the network made no secret of his vanity or his arrogance; from seeing him firsthand, he's at the very least got good basis for being so. He's good-looking, carries himself confidently, exudes charisma. He's likeable, assuming one is willing to tolerate the necessary leeway to, presumably, let him be himself. If he is putting on an act, it's a familiar one — he's not overplaying his hand.

All of this is familiar. Alanei is much the same — so she'll have to be careful not to get tempted to project that friendship onto this acquaintance. An easy thing to do.]

Because all they want to do is draw blood.

[She says, deadpan and matter-of-fact, before letting her composure break enough to laugh at her own joke.]

I presume I have the honor of being presented to the vampire Lestat. Enchanté. My name is Ghost.

[ His laugher peals like a bell in the reasonable quiet of their surroundings; a vampire's voice is naturally blessed with the ability to be impossibly loud or quiet, something they must always keep control of in order to fit in amongst mortals, but Lestat has never been particularly gifted in controlling the volume of his laughter.

What a relief it is, too, to laugh in person and be certain there is no miscommunication through those strange little machines. He's not a technophobe entirely, but he much prefers to hear and see his talking partners. ]

I like that one. One of our kind here used to be the apprentice to a great artist, perhaps I'll share this joke with him.

[ Clearly delighted with her use of his mother tongue and the reverence in her voice as she announces him (even if it's in jest) his smile gets a touch wider, just enough to show those sharp eye-teeth. ]

Ghost. What an interesting name. [ Ghost and a vampire walk into a mall, what will they do. ] It's a pleasure to see you in person. Thank you for meeting with me.

[Almost absently, like it's a reflexive habit, she reaches behind her head and pulls half of the tail of her ponytail in opposite directions, securing the tie a little higher up on her head before she stands up to properly join him. He's got a good five or six inches on her in height, to say nothing of the fact that he's significantly better-dressed; everything about Ghost's appearance reads as functional and uncomplicated, from her drab leather coat to her plain tunic to her sturdy trousers and boots. Really, the only items of somewhat personal flair seem to be a pendant she keeps tucked inside the collar of her shirt, and a brightly-colored paper bracelet of the sort people tend to use for faire and festival admissions.]

You know, I never really asked what I did to warrant it? It's just the one I was assigned. I don't even know who picked it — my mentor, I suppose.

["The one I was assigned" is a fairly unorthodox way of talking about a name, Ghost.]

And I admit most people don't find me much of a pleasure, so it seems you're exceptional in that regard too. Not that I'm surprised. The repertoire you mentioned on the network more than speaks for itself.

[The hand closest to her shoulder bag lightly touches the flap, another habitual motion — checking to make sure it's closed and secure, maybe — before she grasps the strap and looks up at him with a faint smile of her own.]

I appreciate your offer to be my guide today. Here's hoping I can come up with enough jokes to provide adequate compensation.

[ To say that Lestat is a creature who covets beauty and who dresses in such an extravagant way as he does, one could understandably assume that only stereotypical beauty is enough to capture his interests... but you'd be frightfully wrong. The sights Lestat enjoys beholding range from gilded paintings of beautiful renaissance women, to the way leaves attach themselves to a tree, to the woven pattern in fabric, such is the detail his vampire eyes allow him.

That is to say, that when she straightens her hair and stands with such easy and fluid movements that betray how much the movement is like muscle memory to her, Lestat's eyes delight in this small slip of who she is without the need for words and explanation. Her fashion is restrictive, methodical in an almost professional way -- it reminds him of how David dresses, always so proper for his job as the Superior General for the Talamasca, so restrained and so fun to tease because of it -- but it isn't without it's charm.

Her compliments please him enough that even were he not interested in finding out more about her, pressing his fingers into the hints she's already given him about who she is and prising them open to delve inside, then he might have still lingered around her for the praise alone.

He offers out an arm for her to take; relaxed and without expectation should she refuse, but hoping that she won't. He's a polite man despite his.. everything. ]

I'm sure that should you struggle, your company will be more than adequate. But this thing you mentioned, your name being assigned? You were given this name at your job, then? Like a - how do you say it - code name? I didn't think such a thing was a necessary for a woman of the law.

What kind of coffee does a vampire prefer? Decoffinated.

[She makes sure her bag is situated on the side opposite the one she takes his arm with — the better to ensure that it's not clunking around between them and knocking awkwardly into legs — but accepts the offer without visible hesitation. Quite the contrary, it's...sort of nice, in a way she doesn't really feel like examining too closely. It's whimsical, and that's not often something she's willing to allow herself.

He makes it easy, this Lestat. That's a little dangerous. Easy to like, easy to go along with. Tempting.]

A nom de guerre? Something like that. Law isn't my first profession, just the one I took up by necessity. I was raised in another — call it the "family business" — but underwent a career change about ten years ago now.

[ As she takes his arm, he rests his hand over hers in a gentlemanly manner, tilting his head so that he can look where they're going as they start their path toward the mall's entrance, but keeping her in his intent vision at the same time. He seems almost reluctant to take his eyes from her. Maybe he is.

He lets out another bark of a laugh at her joke, his voice loud enough that it probably would have shaken the birds from the surrounding trees, if there were any life nesting in the branches at all. As it is, it merely echoes off the large buildings around them. ]

These jokes make many assumptions, you know. I don't think I have ever had the opportunity to taste coffee, though I like the smell. I suppose you might have a few jokes about my kind not liking garlic, or being unable to cross water or enter houses unbidden, hm?

[ Once inside the mall, he doesn't release her hand and instead slows their pace to a casual little stroll, reminiscent of a dandy in an old romance novel, taking his companion out for the afternoon to enjoy the sights of the city. He smiles down at her, very clearly pleased - yet again - by her French. So many little gifts she's giving this creature who treasures conversation so completely. ]

The family business... you make this sound like some sort of mafia operation. [ His voice gets a little lower, perhaps slightly conspiratorial. ] You weren't mixed up in anything like that, were you?

Now who's making assumptions?

[It's a simple remark that serves a great deal of purpose, offered as much to fill conversational space as it is to actually point out the comparison — because they enter the mall and suddenly it's a flood of curiosity and wonder laid out before her eyes, a bazaar the likes of which she's never really seen before. There are approximations to be made, of course, with how the storefronts could resemble market stalls and the wares displayed in shop windows not unlike the ones richer merchants boast in larger, more established cities. But here the air is cool, the signage is lit with light and neon; even the floors are like music, more smooth and polished than even the finest marble ballroom that Ennalore could hope to boast.

There's so much to look at, a veritable feast for the senses. It's personally mortifying that the first thing her gaze lands and lingers on is — not at all atypical for an average mall — a clothing store with mannequins in the display window, each wearing a jewel-toned satin evening gown. A little too late, she remembers not to stare, and wrenches her attention away.]

Suppose I was mixed up in "something like that". Would that make me more or less interesting to you, I wonder?

[ Lestat, on the other hand, has spent many a day in various kinds of strip malls and superstores. Attracted to the boast of their variety like a magpie is drawn to shiny treasure, Lestat often finds himself rapt with wonder in the face of bright lights and polished floors, of a place holding so many things that humans covet, and conveniently idolising the humans there, too.

He recalls her mentioning she's never been to a mall, so Lestat finds it all too tempting to lightly pluck the surface impression of it from her mind rather than asking like a sane person might.

He sees the storefront through her mind's eye, and when he looks upon it with his own gaze he finds himself similarly drawn to the evening gown on display, but for an entirely different reason; his vampire eyes can see every stitch and the broad fibres that make up its body, and the way the fabric seems to twinkle as though he were looking at it through a rainy window shield makes it all too enticing to not want a closer look. So he guides their step over to it. If she dares to cast an accusatory look at his face, his expression is already the picture of innocence. ]

That's a good question. I suppose it would depend on your motives either way. A person's actions don't always determine what kind of person they are.

[ He hopes, at least. ]

...No, they don't. Sometimes they just made a mistake.

[So she says, a little wistfully, and if it happens that Lestat is still attuning himself to the general veneer of her surface thoughts, he might be surprised to find them oddly shifted: shattered glass, smashed-in fluorescent lights, a dark stain on a taupe carpet. The sting of a papercut on the pad of a careless finger as shaking hands pull at books.

It's only there a moment, and then it's gone again, mercifully replaced by renewed intrigue at the mall's sights and sounds. It also means that she realizes too late where he's taking her, and any accusatory look she might've thrown would've lost all its teeth by now anyway.]

...Well, it's certainly your style. Do you suppose it comes in your size?

[Yet another habit of Ghost's: confronting awkward feelings with blunt candor.]

[ He lets that comment hang in the air, but he feels strangely content in light of it. He knew he liked her for a reason - though should he be asked it might be more of a vibes situation than anything particularly specific - and comments like that one make him sure he's made the right decision in deciding to keep her close.

The sights he sees as he lingers in her thoughts, because of course he does, give him a brief moment of pause, however; it's brief to a vampire, which means it's practically imperceptible to a human, but it has Lestat wondering what, exactly, it was about their conversation that turned her thoughts toward something like that, and what it could mean.

Lestat practically beams at her comment, not really clocking the jest in it and only taking it at face value. Why, after all, would he be offended to find out something so extravagant and finely crafted is suited to his style? Surely that's a compliment, isn't it? And he can't exactly argue. ]

I certainly would catch some eyes in it, wouldn't I? [ He agrees, hassling her inside the store to get a better look at it. ] And what exactly is my style, do you think?

[ He knows, he'd just like to hear it. ]

Your style? Showstopping.

[And it's really only the fact that she's being given the plausible deniability of pretending they're only going to look at it because of his interest that keeps her from making any sort of protest about getting dragged inside; her job is supposed to be about substance rather than appearance, her worth in her capability and not in her looks. Finery and frippery are for royals and — and people who are supposed to care about that kind of thing. People for whom appearances matter.

Appearances don't matter when it's her, so it shouldn't matter. That's how she generally combats the shyness of it all, anyway.]

It's understandable, though, isn't it? Your reputation already precedes you; it wouldn't do to fail to live up to it on arrival.

Ah, such sweet things you say to me. I’d be careful, chérie. With a bigger ego I might be unbearable to be around.

[ He moves them both over to the dress in both their minds eyes and lifts the skirt to assess the fabric with purpose and intention that makes it more than a little clear to tell he’s done this before. But that much should be obvious - that he’s the man who can walk into a store and pick up any item that takes his fancy, with little to no regard for such menial things as price or social status. What does something like that matter to a vampire who’s main goal in life is to marvel at as much possible splendour as he can? ]

You know, there is something to be said about the lack of economy here. I used to care so little for price tags anyway, much to the dismay of my companion who always kept one hand on his pocketbook at all times, but now.. I can’t help but consider the price of things when there isn’t one.

[ He lets the skirt fall, then focuses back on her, as if trying to combine the two items in his minds eye. ]

Strange, don’t you think?

Strange, but relatable. I think I can understand the sentiment on a personal level — I once went from having my every need addressed in the blink of an eye to...

[She pauses, not really like she's hesitant to offer the information in question, but more like she's sifting through words in her mind's eye, looking for the right arrangement of them to precisely express what it is she's after.]

...being part of an economy, as you said. I'd never functioned as a part of that type of system before.

[Occupied as she is with her thoughts and the dress, she ~~FOOLISHLY~~ fails to see the way he's considering it against her, figuratively speaking.]

It was a shock. Learning the value of my labors in a practical sense and not just a philosophical one.

[ Lestat tilts his head slightly from side to side and then seems to make a mental decision with a small nod; he gently breaks the hold of their arms so that he's free to stride across to the counter where a number of sparkling little fascinators, jewellery and other accessory items sit beside the checkout, and he peers over them as he replies. ]

Into the real world you were thrust, I suppose. Most humans are familiar with having their family care for them until a certain age, until they are old enough to go it alone, are they not? [ His eyes flick up at her, considering, then back down. ] Somehow I feel this regularity wasn't the case with you, though, chérie.

[ He realises he's being kind of nosy, but he's a very nosy guy. He will try to keep away from listening to her thoughts as best he can, but along with being nosy he's also veerry impulsive. :') ]

I learned quite the opposite. I was born and lived as a penniless nobleman, then ran away to be just as penniless as a stage performer. It was only once I became what I am that I came into any kind of wealth, and by that point there wasn't much need to get a job or become too involved with the economy of things. [ He chuckles a little, as his careful hands lift out a delicate looking necklace with a small silver drop pendant on it, and holds it up to the light. ] Even so, I liked to know how differently people would treat me depending on how much cash I decided to flash on any given day.

[It's a strange reaction, maybe, but she can't quite smother a reflexive giggle at his initial remark, even though to all appearances there's really nothing funny about it. And the thing is, she knows it's rude, both for not sharing the joke and for leaving him to guess at what it is he'd said that she might've found funny, but she swallows it back until he finishes and then comes back around to the point, rubbing idly at her mouth with the back of her hand like she thinks she's going to wipe the transgression off it physically.]

Sorry. It's just the way you said that — the real world. As though there's just one, or any one is more real than another.

[She follows him over to the counter, glancing around for a minute like she's either looking for something in particular or just checking to see if she's being watched, and finding neither, she moves to one of the sections that isn't show glass and just hops right up onto it to sit, seeming to want her the childlike comfort of her legs dangling as she watches Lestat go about his business.]

— Oh, that's pretty. I have one just like it.

[She reaches for her neck, hooking a mostly-hidden chain with one finger and lifting it a little, enough to bring it to the attention of an observer.]

...My mentor used to drill that into us. Every world is a real world. Every person is a real person. Even if we never saw them ourselves, or set foot in one like this mall, we had to remember that they were real to someone.

[ Lestat raises his eyebrows to study her as she moves closer. It really is such a novel thing for him to have a human be aware of what he is and yet be so willingly close to him without the first inclination to be afraid that he hasn't quite got used to it yet. And honestly, he hopes that he won't for quite some time. ]

What made the reason for such a reminder necessary? To instil empathy?

[ He lets his attention leave the sparkly items completely for a moment, instead focusing all of it on her. ]

Did it work?

Empathy...that, and perspective, I think.

[She lightly kicks her dangling feet, propped on her hands set to either side behind her, watching him in return as he brings his focus to bear on her. It's...nice, being able to just idle around and talk like this. Nice to let her guard down — a strange thing to do in the presence of a vampire, perhaps, but what feels like a natural one to do in the presence of the vampire named Lestat.]

Have you ever heard a saying about a butterfly flapping its wings? It's an adage about cause and effect — a butterfly flapping its wings on one side of the world can create massive storms on the other. Every world is a real world, every person a real person — so if you're going to flap your wings, be careful to think through who might be subjected to the storms.

[ Lestat knows the concept, has heard it every so often from people much more intelligent than he is, throwing the mention of it around in conversations of morality and goodness. Though he loves to ponder those things himself, he can't think of anything worse than doing it in a room full of pompous humans.

Equally so, he finds himself a little too reluctant to get into such things with Ghost, especially having just been so taken by being close to her. He doesn't want the glowing regard she seems to hold him in to dissipate quite so fast. ]

I suppose that's a good life lesson for a mentor to teach, applicable to a good many things. [ He goes back to fiddling with the shining items at the counter, but more resolutely now rather than simply browsing. ] Though a person can't possibly be constantly aware of the ripples their actions might cause, or they'd never do anything at all and would surely go mad with anxiety.

That's almost exactly what my colleague at the time said. How are we supposed to do anything, if we have to worry about everything.

[She's outright toying with her pendant now, a seeming unconscious habit, even as she watches him perusing the others behind the counter. The thin chain twists around and around one of her fingers, then releases; it weaves through a few of them, then unravels again.]

And the truth is, you can't, can you? So the decisions you make have to be ones you can live with. You have to make them knowing that they come with ramifications.

[She smiles faintly.]

You were a penniless nobleman and stage performer before you became a vampire. It granted you a breadth of power that you certainly didn't have before, just as I'm sure it also came with consequences. But on the balance, I assume you feel it was the right decision, for all the ripples and ramifications it's had on others?

[ Lestat lets out a little chuckle at that. How, indeed... He personally tries not to worry about anything that may be the fallout of his actions through sheer force of will - not that it always works without fault, Lestat isn't immune to a little brooding and sometimes even enjoys it, he simply prefers to simply keep his mind busy rather than concern himself with thoughts of ramifications. Especially since there are typically many, what with the whole reckless vampire with a devil-may-care attitude thing. But he's understandably reluctant to remind Ghost that he's a murderer right now. ]

Oh, it wasn't a decision at all, chérie. I had no choice but to become what I am.

[ Normally he might not be quite so open about this particular part of his history, but there's something about being around Ghost that makes him want to bear all. Perhaps it's his need to be seen, his selfish desire for connection and acceptance - but more likely it's the fault of that darker part of him that loves to push and push until it inevitably pushes too hard and reveals more than he should, forcing those he cares for away from him. Like he's punishing them for daring to think there could be any gentleness to him. ]

But I suppose the alternative would be much more miserable, because I would be rotting in the ground, and what a shame that would be, hm?

[ His demeanour is light and upbeat again despite the topic, and his smile grows ever wider as he plucks something shiny from the cabinet - a delicate silver chain bracelet with a ruby coloured pendant on it in the shape of a teardrop. Hilariously, he thinks, it looks like a droplet of blood. ]

After all, without me, who would find you the perfect bling to jazz up your wardrobe? It shines like embers, like your hair. [ He holds it out to her insistently, with the air of a man who rarely hears the word 'no' and most likely wouldn't accept it if he did. Then, his smile turns a little impish. ] It also contrasts that dress perfectly. Food for thought.

That's still a choice. "Rotting in the ground or whatever it takes to avoid it" — there is a decision there, it's just a laughably obvious one. Dead, or whatever I have to do not to be.

[Even this early in the acquaintance, it's probably obvious that Ghost is not one to be careless with her words. The natural framing shift from "whatever you have to do" to "whatever I have to do" is surely not a coincidence.

Fortunately, about two seconds later, the reverie breaks.]

— who in the world taught you a word like bling?

[And then she's laughing to fill the stillness instead, absently reaching to take the bracelet via the pendant, hooking her fingers behind it like a backdrop so that the loose chain can drape over the top of her hand while she regards it.]

So this is a ploy. Sell me on the bracelet so I'll have to match the dress to it?

[ He delights in her consideration of it, leaning in a little closer as if to get a better look himself, when really he's just focusing on her face, her expression, the way the jewel shines a reflection in her eyes to make them sparkle. ]

My bandmates are mostly responsible for how hip I am when it comes to jiving on the same beat as everyone else.

[ He says it so seriously, as though it's casual and comes easy to him, even though with his aristocratic persona and his French accent it sounds more like a poor parody than anything else. ]

But no, ma chérie, not a ploy. More a scheme. [ Aren't those words that mean the same thing??? Anyway… ] But you have to admit I'm right, don't you? Can't you see yourself wearing it, how dazzling a sight it would be?

[ Lestat can, of course, with incredible ease given his vampiric prowess, and he'd happily share the vision with her if she had any trouble conjuring it in her mind. He hasn't forgotten their more serious topic, either, he's just puzzling out his response. ]

[And the thing is, she knows the correct response to give to bait like that. It's formulaic and routine — the right thing to do is play along, accept the compliment, let him make his pitch and smile and nod and keep to herself that she doesn't believe it. It wouldn't be the first time she's danced that dance; it certainly won't be the last.]

I'm sure it would be, on someone else.

[But this time, she's comfortable enough to risk not just saying the right thing. To let a little bit of the truth slip through, even if it means letting flaws show through the cracks.]

I'm the element that doesn't match, not the accessories.

[ Lestat's airy countenance falters for a second, so slight it's practically inscrutable, as he looks at her face with a still and entirely inhuman intensity; it's as if he's looking beyond her, or inside her, to her soul, trying to determine exactly where this flicker has come from. ]

You wound me, my rousse, to see you have so little faith in my vision of you.

[ His voice is a little quieter, his tone almost tender. He comes around the desk to stand before her where she sits on the counter. Still his body lingers in that vampiric intensity, but there's a human element in his eyes, the way he looks at her without an inch of untruth, imploring her to believe the words coming from the mouth of a serial tale-spinner. ]

Would you let me show you? Would you see it, if you could?

[People like him are the worst, she thinks, unbidden, her idle fidgeting movements rapidly going still when Lestat begins to reposition himself. The worst, the absolute worst — because they make it so easy to want to believe them, so tempting to buy into their visions when dreams and nonsense are just an easy way of getting hurt.

(And yet, he's not the type to cause harm in a moment like this, is he? Well — it's not as though she's known him long enough to know, really, but surely if his intentions were bad ones, he would've sprung them long before now, and in a far more productive way.)

It's hard to look at him, almost. It's a little like looking into the sun, and the only reason Ghost doesn't look away is because she's never been one to blink when cornered, even if it means burning out her eyes in the process.]

Of course I'd let you show me. But I can't —

[...]

I can't promise I'll see it, the way that you do.

[ It's been some time since he's used this particular power of his - preferring, more often than not, to say the things he wishes to have heard with his clever mouth and beautifully even voice rather than his mind - but there is something about this moment that makes it all too clear to him that he has to try something a little less pedestrian than simply telling her and hoping she'll understand.

There is something else to this one; this fine little thing so full of knowledge and of jokes, who would willingly attend in his flamboyant company despite knowing so little about him, who somehow seems to know exactly what to say to him to please him, as though she knows his type somehow. Lestat feels a fierce and immediate protectiveness over her, and a desire to always know where she is, how she is, to be close to her if he could do so without frightening her... He knows she's smart, but is she smart enough to feel fear, if she knew what kind of monster he is?

He reaches out with a hand, his cool palm reaching out to cup her cheek. Armed with a physical connection as well as their eye contact, it's so much easier for Lestat to send her visions rather than words.

The sights come straight from his head, the way his vampire eyes had highlighted upon every stitch, noting each panel of the dress, every bunch of fabric, every overlay where the creases created beautiful shadows, and every place where the perfectly chosen material was fitted to the frame to show it off the best. Then, he sends her the image from his powerful imagination of her wearing it; her smile, her bright eyes, her beautiful hair, the bracelet on her wrist, her necklace shining, her little plastic wristband still there. Every detail precise and exact and dazzling in the twinkling perception that is how a vampire sees everything; from those things made by man and man himself, to the natural wonder of the world. ]

So now you see it, my darling. [ He says, quietly, as he lets the vision fade to something less intense, a memory rather than an all-encompassing thought. ] You see it exactly the way I do, even if you cannot see it yourself.

[There's a very particular thing she's supposed to take away from this vision, Ghost knows. She's supposed to see it and think it's beautiful. She's supposed to see it and appreciate that it's what Lestat sees, a vision from his mind to hers.

But what she does think is that this talent of his, this power — that he wields it like a seasoned Writer, like the sort of person she was once supposed to be. The image floods her senses and it's like that long-dormant part of her childhood, smothered beneath the weight of never going back never going home never fulfilling that potential, senses an imminent spring and begins to push up toward the sunlight he casts. He sees every stitch, every detail, and he sets it in front of her and her fingers itch with the memory of what it used to feel like to make those things real with written words.

It feels like it did when she was young, sitting beside Meta in the sleek and sterile corridors of the Agency, and he would put images like this in her head, too — not literally, not like this, but from believing in them so vividly that he could make her see them for herself. He was always better at it than she was; Nym never said as much outright, good teacher that he was, but it wasn't as though they didn't all know it. He could always see things that she couldn't, he could always dream them better.

She was always more careful with her words than he was.

He should have been more careful.

Lestat makes her wish she had a pen in her hands, a notebook in her lap. She could put his dream down on paper and it would be so perfect, this beautiful woman perfectly suited to her environment, exquisite to look at, fascinating to behold, preserved on a page so that anyone who read it could see it too, and if only she were better, smarter, more trained, more skilled, she could write it to be true —

It takes that long before it hits her, the point she was supposed to take away from this the whole time.]

Oh. You're — oh, do that again, you have to do it again —

[It feels shameful, almost, to have squandered the whole thing on thoughts of her talent — the only thing she was born for — when all along the point was right there in front of her eyes: that it wouldn't take talent to have that vision. This thing he sees is not a fantasy waiting to be brought to life; it's a thing that could already be, if not for her instinct to consider dreams the playthings of others.

He's showing her a reality. The pieces are all already there. The only thing missing is her.]

[ Lestat watches her face change as she sees what he sees, what he sends to her with such finely crafted care that it's almost kind… were it possible for a vampire to be such a thing. He watches every twitch of her expression, each swipe of her eyes behind her lids as they take it in, the faint tremble of her lip as confusion mounts and morphs into dawning realisation... and then her pleading with him to let her see it again.

Lestat laughs, light and full of affection, and of course he lets her see it again. He puts his hand to her other cheek, effectively cupping her face, as though it might make the vision brighter.

It's the same scene as before, only this time she's dancing with a man in some brilliant white ensemble decorated with golden brocade, and a gorgeous red half-cape over one shoulder to match with the stone in the bracelet on her wrist. The man has pale blonde hair tied back in a ribbon, he's tall and he's quite beautiful, and only when he twirls her from his arms does it become painfully clear that the man is Lestat himself. Well, he couldn't resist; this is coming from his imagination after all.

The pair dance and dance, spinning across the floor where no other dancers interrupt their progress save for the very end where they applaud as the music dies to a close. The image focuses back in on her, as she smiles and laughs, breathless and overcome with joy, before it quietly fades like the closing of a curtain. ]

Enough? It can become quite addictive, you know. I might have to cut you off if you aren't yet satisfied.

[ That, and it's quite exhausting to do in a place like this where his typical prowess isn't so potent. ]

[It's funny, almost. He says that it could become addictive, drinking down visions like this, and he's right — but maybe not in the way he thinks. After all, it's not the fantasy in and of itself that she finds so moving, but the nostalgia of watching it at all. The ache of remembering what it felt like to dream the way he dreams, to conjure up any imagine and think of all the ways that words might make it a reality.]

...So you're saying —

[She didn't realize her throat was dry, truly. Not until she tried to begin, and felt the words catch in the back of her mouth, rough and snagging on the syllables.]

— So I'm getting the dress. Is what you're saying.

[She sounds halfway between amused and resigned, with a touch of exasperation dashed in. But it's a concession, and Ghost isn't the type to make those often. She wonders if he knows just what it means, the fact that on this much, he's won.]

[ Winning is and always has been very important to Lestat; it's surprising how rarely he feels the particular sensation of holding the highest hand, of getting what he wants without someone being all the more miserable for it, and in this instance he's more than happy to bask in the feeling for a few moments before he replies. ]

That is what I'm saying, yes. It would make me indescribably happy.

[ He takes up her hands in both of his and presses a kiss to the back of each palm before striding meaningfully across the room and lifting the mannequin down from its stand with impossible ease - like moving a statue made of air rather than this life-sized hunk of plastic and wood. He twirls across the floor with it, because of course he does, before he lets it come to a stop at their side, wobbling slightly on it's plastic stand. ]

I'm not sure if there are any events held here grand enough for you to wear it to, but it's always better to be prepared for an eventuality rather than find yourself frantic in the last minute. [ A thought seems to land then: ] Oh, and don't forget the bracelet. They belong together.

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