Chapter Text
1975. 2 years and 2 months after the first interview. Miami.
Daniel sprung back, quick on her feet, grinning viciously. This was not the first time she’d provoked someone to violence during an interview, or in her day to day life. She bumped carelessly into someone behind her. The bar had gotten crowded during her little ambush of an interview, noise and people surrounding them. He wouldn’t be able to hurt her with all these people around, although, he’d been able to get away with obviously abusing his girlfriend all this time so who knew. Fucking football culture.
“You cunt, bitch,” the man growled.
“Redundant. That what you call your girlfriend while you hit her?”
He raised his hand, quick like a snake, and Daniel jerked back again, elbow skidding through a wet mess on the bar and knocking into another body behind her. She might have called this one wrong. It’d be worth it though. The article, the truth; it always was.
Curiosity killed the cat, a voice from her past hissed, probably her mother’s. Her most unpleasant thoughts usually originated with her.
The blow she expected didn’t land.
“Oh dear,” a voice clucked, chiding, horrible. Daniel sunk into it like a too warm bath, good and prickling, sharp. (Pain and pleasure), another voice piped up in her head, this one very real, not a half remembered thing from her past.
The other woman stepped out from behind Daniel, the man’s wrist still seized in her fist, looking ethereal in the dim lighting, an avenging angel, her devil. A horror in a dainty dress. She could tell she was using a little too much strength on him.
(What should I do to him?) Armand asked in her head. The man was trying futilely to yank his arm back, shock growing. Daniel imagined telling him, you tried to hit the wrong person here. Don’t you know who I am? Brand new owner of the island just off the coast. I am the devil’s minion and she grants my every wish.
“Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to hit a girl?” Armand asked, Hershey chocolate cloying, condescension in every line of her body. “Oh no, she didn’t. I see, I see now. How tragic? Is that why you hate women?”
“Get the fuck—” he started but she had heard enough.
“Hurt him,” she requested, out loud, because she wanted to see his fear. (His hand so he can’t play that idiotic game anymore.)
Tears spilled from his eyes and a guttural noise escaped him when Armand tilted his wrist in a quick, effortless motion. Daniel heard it snap even with the noise in the bar. She let go as he yanked his wrist towards himself, cradling it, keening. It dangled strangely.
“Babe, I think you did more than break it,” she said low, transfixed with the way his fingers were turning blue. There was a distant roar building inside her that sounded like more, more.
(He’s lucky I didn’t tear it off.)
“Fucking dykes,” he croaked, eyes blazing despite the pallor of his face. Shock was probably the only thing keeping him upright.
Daniel laughed and laughed and laughed. She loved when they tried to use that as an insult, like it hadn’t lost all meaning, like it could ever hurt her after her mom hissed it six years ago. No insult ever felt the same after it’d come out of your mother’s mouth. She barely heard Armand tell him he should go the hospital, barely registered being directed out of the bar by a rough grip on the back of her neck. It was not dissimilar to an unruly kitten getting scruffed. She felt high with it all, the quotes for her article, the violence, the pride, Armand, Armand, Armand; although, it could be that she was just high.
The grip tightened and she knew it meant Armand was in her head.
“Is that what you are?” (My kitten?) Her voice was low, dangerous, right in Daniel’s ear, in her head, as they pushed out into the night, the noise of the bar dropping away behind them. Armand maneuvered them into the alley, not deep, just at the edge so anyone walking by could still see, and pressed Daniel’s back into the brick wall. “Yeah, my wild, little thing. I’ve got to take you into hand sometimes. Remind you not to be careless with your little kitten claws.”
The shiver that ran through her couldn’t be blamed on the weather or the drugs. Armand’s eyes sharpened. (What’d you take?) The thought whispered through her mind, light, echoing.
“Don’t gotta worry about who I use my claws on, do I?” She drawled, instigating, always. “That’s what I’ve got you for.”
Armand’s hand moved from the back of her neck, fingers gripping her jaw instead, tilting her head up so she was staring up into her face, back of her head scraping against the wall. She pressed her thumb into Daniel’s cheek, below her right eye, just beneath the hollowed dark circles of too many sleepless nights.
(Your pupils are huge. What did you take?) “What if I hadn’t been here, watching out? My life doesn’t revolve around the petty dealings of mortals. Curiosity killed the cat, Daniel.” Daniel wondered if she’d plucked that line out of her head from earlier or if it was just the natural progression of their cat metaphor. Armand only sometimes knew modern phrases, a week ago, she’d spent a hour repeating that’s rad, out loud in the New York apartment while she tried to finish her piece on the city councilman for district 5.
(I didn’t take anything. Maybe it’s just lust, my pupils. Maybe you did it to me.) She reached out, getting a hand on Armand’s waist. “Ah, but satisfaction brought the cat back to life. Did you never hear the end of that saying? I knew you were there anyway. Smelled your perfume the moment you sat down behind me at the bar. You never give me enough credit. I pay attention.”
She liked when it was like this between them, two conversations running concurrently, three if you counted the physical actions between them as a language. The way she had to strain herself just a little, the way it was not boring.
Armand’s eyes narrowed, burning amber, cat-like undeniably, and Daniel knew she caught the thought, the word boring. (That’s where you’re wrong. I give you too much credit, my wild, reckless girl.)
(Yours, yes, yours). She arched her back as much as she could, pressing them impossibly closer.
(Like how I thought you were smart enough to know you can’t lie to me. What did you take? You’re feverish. I’m going to eat your dealer.) “You’re not a cat. You do not have nine lives. Why must you court danger like this?”
“Didn’t get it from my regular guy. Please leave him alone. You know he’s just trying to pay his child support so he can keep seeing his kid.”
“He lied. I’ve told you this before, there is no kid. You don’t know what you took, do you?” Armand hissed.
“You’re the only real danger in my life. (My devil, monster in my closet, nightmare creature.)
(I’m the quiet you’ve been longing for.)
“You shouldn’t say that and the last thing you are is quiet. The danger I’ve been longing for, maybe.”
(What you’ve been longing for, yes.)
“Anyway, if you’re so worried—it’s not nine lives but I could have two.”
Armand stepped back, hands falling away from her. She missed the cold touch immediately, aware that Armand was right about her fever. A sense memory of her mother pressing the back of her hand to her forehead when she was a child passed through her. Odd, in that her mother was never the maternal type, too distant and busy for that. The pills were probably a mistake, black beauties the other girl had said as she shook two out into the palm of Daniel’s hand. She should’ve stuck to coke. Distantly, a triumphant sigh as Armand plucked the name of the drugs from her head.
“I’ve told you I won’t turn you. I’ll kill you first. It’d be better than damning you.” (Why must you always push. Never satisfied. Never afraid of the right things.)
“You keep promising that,” she teased deciding not to let it be a fight tonight, stepping backwards out of the alley back into the light, watching the way Armand with a shift of light went from beautiful woman to a shadow of gleaming eyes, a creature. “Threat’s starting to lose its power. You wanna keep me.”
Something like a hum buzzed through her head, the drugs or Armand, impossible sometimes to know which. It should’ve been, should be, was, violating to have someone in her head, skimming thoughts and feelings and, at least that she knew of, once altering her memory but there was a relief at the same time in being known this way, entirely. It was shameful and intoxicating and it was a one way street. What would she do to know the inside of Armand’s head, to know even once what she was thinking.
“You should be afraid of me,” she said, quiet, sincere, apologetic, maybe.
(What makes you think that, apologetic? I’m not.)
She stepped back onto the sidewalk too, short brown curls catching the light, immaculate in her little wrap dress showcasing her sharp collarbones. She didn’t always look like someone you should be afraid of but people walking past them on the sidewalk diverted far around her, responding unconsciously to a prey instinct.
“Don’t worry. I’m still afraid of you. That’s the best part, the fear. For you too, right? You like me a little bit afraid.” (I see you.) “Apparently some band is gonna play at Henry’s tonight. You want to keep skulking in the shadows or actually go with me?”