Foster Fledgling

François followed Lestat out the great front door, his heart thudding in his chest so fiercely that he was sure everyone within a two mile radius could hear it. If Lestat heard it, however, he made no indication. In fact, he said nothing at all for several minutes, and then only an admonition to François to watch his step over some muddy ground.

François stole peeks at Lestat, wondering if this laconic creature could be the same vampire who'd written so eloquently - and so much - in those three books he'd read. He certainly was every bit as good looking as he'd described himself, especially now that his face wasn't contorted with madness or whatever it was. François could easily understand how he had mistaken Lestat for an angel; all he needed was a pair of wings and a halo.

If only he had a reputation equally as angelic. François knew that he was under constant preternatural surveillance; Armand, David, and Marius were all a warm, if unobtrusive, presence in the back of his consciousness. It gave him some comfort, knowing that they were there. Lestat had given his word that he would not harm him, but François had no way of knowing how trustworthy he really was.

"I meant what I said back there," Lestat said, almost as if he'd been able to read François's thoughts. "I won't harm you, I really won't. You have no reason to be afraid of me."

François started at that, and Lestat laughed.

"That's what you keep saying," François said, careful to keep his tone neutral.

"But you don't believe me, is that it?"

"Whatever," François said, shrugging.

"Well, you can take my word for it."

They stopped walking, and stood in the halo of light from a street lamp. Lestat reached over to touch François's shoulder; and the boy flinched just a bit, his eyes wide with the badly concealed fright. Lestat had seen that look in the eyes of the deer and rabbits he'd hunted as a mortal, and later of course in certain mortals he'd stalked. Lestat half expected him to bolt, make a run back to St. Elizabeth's; instead, he held his ground. Facing down his wolves, Lestat thought to himself bemusedly. And he's not even armed.

He was impressed; the kid had guts. He smiled with genuine warmth. He could learn to like this boy, he thought.

"You're not at all what I expected, you know," he said, patting François on the shoulder.

"What did you expect?" François asked, not flinching this time but not breaking eye contact, either. It seemed that he relaxed, just the slightest bit.

"Some sort of miniature Louis, I suppose," Lestat replied, thoughtfully. "He was forever telling me how you're quiet and studious, like he is."

"Yeah, you right," François said, lapsing back into the patois of his mortal life. "But you know, I'm not exactly like him. Oh, I try to be as much like him as I can, because I want to make him feel good, you know? I mean, he's my father, and I'm very grateful to him for everything he's done for me. I mean, geez, he adopted me and everything. I love him, a whole lot, you know."

"Louis told me about his plan to adopt you, although God knows why he went to the trouble," Lestat said, secretly relieved that Louis's affections were reciprocated. He'd had his doubts, but the boy's devotion was obvious. Still, it wouldn't hurt to test just how deep those feelings went; Claudia had been quite devoted, too. Lestat would not allow Louis to be hurt that way again. Better to test the boy now, and get any deceit out in the open. "He was quite enthused about it, you have no idea how tired I got of listening to him talk about it."

"I'm sure it was quite an ordeal for you," François muttered, rolling his eyes.

Lestat looked at him for a moment, equal parts stunned and amused at the boy's insolence; it was something he himself might have said, in similar circumstances. Still, he wanted to sound out the boy, so he decided to push a bit further. "Ah, but that's Louis for you," he said, carefully gauging the amount of sarcasm in his voice. "He gets some stupid idea in his head, and you can't put him off it."

"It wasn't a stupid idea!" François said, his earlier trepidation evaporating; in its place was a sudden, intensely defensive and utterly foolhardy anger. "You got no room to talk! At least he doesn't go off looking for ways to fuck up other people's lives just for the fun of it!"

"Such language!" Lestat feigned shock, hands over his ears. "My, my. I wonder what Louis would think if he knew his precious little fledgling had such a gutter mouth?" He waited to see what François would do. Would he react as Louis had at similar taunts, and fling himself at Lestat, arms flailing and feet kicking? Would he turn and run, choosing retreat over confrontation? Would he break down in tears? Just what was this child made of? Lestat couldn't wait to find out.

François turned his back on Lestat, and the elder vampire thought for certain that flight would be his choice. But François did not flee; instead, he stood quietly, clenching and unclenching his fists, breathing slowly and deeply. After a moment, his breathing returned to normal, and the hands stopped clenching, and slipped into his pockets.

"But I'm not his, am I?" he said softly.

"What?" Lestat asked. Whatever he'd expected the boy to say, that had not been it.

François turned around to again face Lestat. "I'm not Louis's fledgling, am I?" His voice was calm, normal, as if he'd not just been seething with anger. He might as well have been discussing the weather, or the night's television listings. "Louis doesn't go around making new vampires left and right." He threw back his shoulders, and stared up at Lestat defiantly. "Louis is my father, yes, and I'm very proud and honored to be his son, but I am not his fledgling, Lestat. I'm yours." His eyes narrowed. "Don't you remember that? Or has your infamously faulty memory forgotten that little fact?"

"Ah, so that's how it is," Lestat said, feeling his temper spark, but refusing to give into it just yet. Instead, he folded his arms across his chest, and looked down at the boy, taking advantage of the nearly twelve inch difference in their heights. To his credit, François did not back down; if anything, he stood a bit straighter. Again, Lestat could not help but be impressed. A part of him wanted to tell the boy what a splendid example of a vampire he was, that Louis had done well by him, that he should be very proud of himself, that he, Lestat, was very proud of him.

He chose to ignore that part of himself. "Yes, to answer your question, I do remember it, more or less. As I recall, if it I hadn't been there, you'd be dead now." He watched the boy's face, to see the effect of his words. Nothing. Damn. That had to be Louis's teaching. "Tell me, François, how good is your memory? Do you remember it?"

"Yes."

Lestat waited for several moments, wondering if the boy would stand there all night silently staring at him. Finally, he gave up. "For God's sake, would you just say something!" he cried, throwing his hands into the air.

François continued to silently stare at him, his face impassive. Lestat stared back for a while, and then gave up; it was a battle of wills, and the boy had had the best of teachers.

"Fine, then," Lestat sighed. "Do whatever you want. I need to hunt." He turned to walk away. He hadn't gone more than a half a dozen steps when he was stopped.

"Do you really remember me, or was that just to make Louis feel better?" There was no accusation, no anger evident, just honest curiosity and concern and something else.

Lestat turned back to him. This was a different boy who now stood before him. Gone was the anger, the bravado, the tough guy routine, replaced with something so purely innocent, so vulnerable and utterly without guile, that it was all Lestat could do to stop himself from sweeping him into his arms and embracing him. There was something about this boy, something ineffable, that brought out every paternal emotion Lestat possessed. Was this what Louis had seen that first night? Was this what compelled him to abandon his precious anonymity and not only talk to this young stranger, but to actually take him in and care for him?

Whatever the cause, Lestat found his own anger dissipated as quickly as it had come. He walked back to stand before him. "Yes, I do. I remember you," he said, reaching out again to touch the boy's shoulder. This time, he didn't flinch at all. Somehow, that made Lestat feel better, although he couldn't say why. "It's not very clear, though, and there are a lot of gaps. But most of the salient details are there." He paused, sifting through his spotty memory. "It was in the cemetery, there were some thugs roughing you up, I was on top of that society tomb . . . " He paused again. "It gets a bit fuzzy after that," he admitted. "The rest is just, well, confused images."

"Do you - " François halted, took a deep breath, and then continued. "I mean, why did you - why did you do it? Why not just drink my blood and let me die?" He chewed nervously on his lower lip.

"You want to know why I made you." Lestat stared at him, entranced. The sight of his small, perfectly formed fangs glinting in the moonlight made this otherwise ordinary human habit seem remarkable, a surreal combination of the mundane and the preternatural. It captivated him, fascinating him like a newly born fledgling. But François was waiting for an answer, waiting and staring at him in that painfully polite, yet unforgivably demanding way that Louis did. "Why I gave you the Dark Gift? I can tell you, but you probably won't like it much."

"That's okay. I just want to know."

Lestat stared at him anew; the boy seemed prepared to accept whatever story Lestat told him. He considered whether he should just make up something plausible, something that would satisfy the boy's need for an answer without causing more questions. But he couldn't think of anything right then, and anyway, this child was too much like Louis to believe too easy an answer. Better stick to the truth then, at least, what passed for the truth; he himself wasn't entirely sure what was true and what was false anymore.

"I didn't want to see you suffer anymore," he said, simply. "I saw what they were doing, I knew you were in pain and probably dying, and I just thought I could make it better. I . . . thought you'd suffered enough." He didn't add, "And Memnoch was using you to illustrate the kind of suffering God allowed, the omnipotent apathy, to try to convince me to help him." He looked at François. "I doubt if that's what you wanted to hear, but it's the truth."

"It doesn't matter much, I guess," François shrugged. "I just kind of wondered, but it doesn't matter. Like I said before, I am what I am now, and there's not a hell of a lot to be done about it."

"No, it's a one way ticket," Lestat agreed. He looked at the boy askance. "You don't seem too upset about that."

"Why should I be?" François asked. "No point in worrying about stuff you can't change, right? Waste of time." He pulled his hands out of his pockets, and rubbed at his shoulders. "I'm getting cold, and I'm starving. Are we going to stand around here talking all night, or can we go hunt sometime soon?"

Lestat laughed. "We can go hunt."

They found a brace of victims with little difficulty. Lestat watched with fascination as François hunted with as much determination, skill, and ruthlessness as himself.

"I'm impressed," he commented, as they made their way back toward St. Elizabeth's. "You seem to know what you're doing."

"No shit, Sherlock, what was your first clue?" He rolled his eyes.

Lestat stopped in his tracks, and then burst out laughing. "What the hell does that mean?" he asked.

François looked at him for a moment, and once more anger flashed darkly in his eyes. "It means, you learn real fast how to survive when you're all by yourself." He seemed about to say something more, but then thought better of it. Slowly, the brief flare of temper evaporated. He sighed, and shook his head. "Look, it doesn't matter. Forget it, okay?"

They walked along in silence then, and Lestat thought about what François had said. Suddenly, the meaning behind the words and the anger hit home.

"My God," Lestat whispered. "You were all alone. You didn't know anything." The full impact of what he'd done hit him, then, and he was utterly appalled. This was a new low, even for him; it was quite possibly the worst thing he'd ever done. Not only had he done the Dark Trick on a child, and an unwilling one, but he had then abandoned the boy to his fate without so much as one word of advice. "Magnus at least told me what I was."

"Lucky you," François said dryly, looking away and wrapping his arms around himself. "But hey, I'm a bright kid. I figured it out in a few nights."

"A few nights!" Lestat stared at him, his eyes wide with horror. "Louis didn't tell me that!"

"I'm sure Louis wanted to spare you the gory details."

"Did he?" The sarcasm was not lost on Lestat, although he was very surprised by it. François was turning out to be less than the sweet innocent Louis had made him out to be. Much to his surprise, Lestat found that he preferred this boy to the one Louis had described.

"He's been very worried about you, you know. I guess he didn't want to lay a guilt trip on you on top of everything else."

The implied accusation was clear enough. While Lestat didn't really want to hear what the boy had suffered because of his carelessness - he knew all too well that now that he was "himself" again, the recriminations and scolding would not be far behind - he found that his curiosity was getting the better of him. He did want to know what the boy had suffered after he'd left him, if for no other reason than to fill in a few gaps in his memories of what had happened. And besides, despite the harsh words and the accusations, he found himself growing increasingly intrigued with the boy.

"I know, he's like that," Lestat said, wondering if he should change the subject, or let the boy continue at his own volition. He was terrible at reading people, always had been; hadn't that been at the root of all of his relationship problems? While he was still debating it, the problem solved itself.

"Louis is a good man, and he deserves to be treated a hell of a lot better." François whipped around to face his maker, and folded his arms across his chest. "It's about time someone made you see the consequences of your actions."

Lestat was too shocked to reply, even if he'd had the slightest clue what to say. Frankness and honesty were one thing; this went far beyond that. François raised his eyes to meet Lestat's, and despite his smaller size and youthful appearance, somehow managed to be fairly intimidating. Under other circumstances, Lestat would have found it hysterically funny - but not now.

"I didn't know what had happened to me," François said, meeting Lestat's eyes unflinchingly. "I thought it was a bad trip. I woke up in that filthy, stinking tomb where you'd bricked me in, and beat my hands bloody trying to get out."

There was a hard edge to François's voice that had not been there before, even during his previous spurts of anger; it was as if he was remaining civil by sheer strength of will power alone. It was a sensation that was all too familiar to Lestat; once again, it was very clear that manners and hunting skills were not all that he had learned from Louis.

"Then I tried to eat, and you can imagine what happened. But that wasn't the best part." He stepped closer to Lestat, and lowered his voice to a near whisper, never once breaking eye contact. Lestat wanted to look away, but he couldn't. François continued. "I bet you can guess what happened next, can't you?"

He seemed to be waiting for an answer. A horrific thought began to tickle the back of Lestat's mind, too terrible to contemplate, but still it came, forcing itself to the front of his consciousness, until he had no choice but to recognize it for fact. "My God!" he gasped. "The sun."

"Yeah. The sun."

Only then did François break that intense gaze, and turn away. Lestat tried to find the words to express the feelings that washed over him, but none seemed adequate. Failing this, he began to weep; within moments, he had to sit down, right on the curb, holding his face in his hands and sobbing. "I'm sorry," he blurted out, between sobs. "I truly am sorry."

He expected to hear more recriminations, perhaps even receive some sort of physical attack, and resolved himself to take whatever François dealt out, so overwhelming were the feelings of guilt and sorrow and yes, even regret. Instead, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and felt something soft pressed into his hands. He opened his eyes, and saw that he held a white linen handkerchief. He turned to see François, squatting beside him, his face filled with concern.

"It's okay, Lestat," François said, slipping an arm around Lestat's shoulders. "It's history, forget it. It's okay, really."

"I wouldn't have left you alone if I'd been myself," Lestat said, dabbing at his eyes with the handkerchief, and trying, with mediocre success, to stop weeping.

"I know," François said. "Everybody has told me that. And you know, I did survive, and I found Louis. That makes up for everything, all of it." He smiled, then, and his face lit up.

Once again, Lestat thought he saw something of what had attracted Louis in the first place. He took a couple of deep breaths, and regained some semblance of self control. "Do you have any idea how remarkable that is?" he asked.

"No, not really," François replied, dropping down to sit beside Lestat on the curb. "He did say something about nobody ever finding him before. And I know I feel like the luckiest guy in the world, to have him care about me like he does."

Lestat had to smile. "Oh, that old story again. I will give him this, he's very good at hiding in plain sight when he wants to. But you know, he is really quite shy, when you come down to it. You must be something very special, indeed." He reached over, and ruffled François's hair.

"Stop that," François said, but there was no rancor in his voice. He ran a hand over his hair, smoothing it back. "And anyway, I think you're wrong. I think Louis is the special one."

"Oh, you're Louis's, alright," Lestat said, rolling his eyes and feigning irritation. "You've certainly got that idiotic modesty down pat."

"Yeah, but with me it's just an act," François quipped. "I've got too much of that de Lioncourt blood for real modesty."

Lestat stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. "I like you, François. Really, I do."

François blinked a few times, and then flashed him a lop-sided grin. "You ain't so bad yourself, either, I guess."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, reflecting on this mutually unexpected turn of events.

"May I ask you something, seriously?" Lestat asked suddenly. "And will you answer me honestly?"

"Uh, yeah," François answered. "I guess so. What?"

"Do you hate me for what I did?"

François was silent again for a moment. "No," he said finally. "No, I don't. Look, it's like this. Like you said, if you hadn't been there, I would've been killed anyway, and like I said, I'd never have met Louis, or Armand and Daniel, or anyone." He seemed genuinely surprised. "I don't hate you, Lestat. I won't say that I love you," he added hastily, "because I don't know you well enough. But I do like you." He took a deep breath. "And I - I'm glad you did it."

"You are?" Lestat asked, incredulous. "You really mean that?"

"Yes," François replied. "I really mean it. Thank you for giving me the Dark Gift."

Lestat found himself speechless. He'd always believed that no one could refuse the offer of immortality, but to have a fledgling actually thank him for taking his life and making him a vampire? And for it to come from Louis's protégé? This was something that he could never have imagined in his wildest dreams.

"Lestat?"

He felt a nudge, and looked down to see François peering up at him, his face serious.

"What?"

"I said, can I ask you something now?"

"Oh." Lestat ran a hand through his hair, bringing himself back to the here and now. "Yes, of course. Anything."

François bit his lip, and took a deep breath. "Uh, I was kind of wondering. All that . . . stuff that, uh, happened to you, did it, well, you know . . ." He drew his knees up, and crossed his arms over them. "Did it, you know, really happen?"

Lestat's eyes grew distant, and a shadow passed over his face. "You mean, Memnoch, heaven, hell, creation, the Crucifixion, the Veil, all of that?" His voice was very soft, and tinged with something that François couldn't readily identify, something that might have been sadness, but wasn't, exactly.

"Uh huh." He noticed that his own voice was very soft, too. "Yeah, all that stuff."

Lestat looked away into the night for a moment. "I - I honestly don't know," he sighed, finally. "I think so. I believe that it did. Yes, I believe that it did, all of it. But I can't prove it." He turned back to François. "Can you keep a secret?"

"Yes." François answered without even a moment's hesitation, and he meant it. Somehow, he knew that this was something important. "I give you my word."

Lestat leaned close to him, until their faces were only inches apart. "I think that it happened, all of it, but that somehow, it was all made right again. You know, no one knows where I was for several nights. No one can explain that, how no one, not Marius, not Armand, not even Maharet, none of them could hear me. For several nights, I disappeared off the face of the earth. Just like that." He snapped his fingers. "Even when I switched places with Raglan James, they were still able to find me. But this time, they couldn't. I was just - not - here."

François thought about this for a moment. "You know what, Lestat?" he said. "I think you're right. I mean, why the hell not? I didn't believe in vampires before you found me, but you were real all the time, right?"

"Yes," Lestat replied, hesitantly. "I don't quite follow you."

"Well," François spread his hands out in front of him. "The way I see it, it's the same thing. No one else has ever met God or the devil, so they don't know, but you do. That doesn't make it not real, it just means it's -" he stopped, searching for the right words. "It just means that you know something they don't know." He shrugged. "I guess that doesn't make much sense, huh?" He grinned sheepishly.

"It makes about as much sense as anything I've figured out," Lestat admitted.

"You want to know what else I think?" François said, lowering his voice conspiratorially.

"What?" Lestat whispered back.

"I think you just told everyone that it was all bullshit so they'd leave you alone."

Lestat stared at him for a long moment. "I think you're a very perceptive young man, François."

François shrugged, and then abruptly stretched. "It's just what I would have done," he said.

"Somehow," Lestat said, rising to his feet, "I don't doubt that for a moment." He held out his hand to François, and pulled him to his feet.

"What now?" François asked. "Where do we go from here?"

"Well, I suppose we - What on earth?" He was staring at the handkerchief that François had given him earlier. He hadn't noticed the monogram before, neatly embroidered across it in blue thread, FdPdL. "Good God, there really is no end to his foolishness, is there?"

"What?" François asked, his brow furrowed in confusion.

"This," Lestat held out the bit of cloth. "Sometimes your Papa forgets that this is the twentieth century."

"My what?" François stared at him. "What did you say?"

"Your Papa," Lestat replied, raising one eyebrow to indicate that he thought the answer was obvious. "Louis adopted you, didn't he?"

"Well, yeah -"

"So he's your father, isn't he?"

"I guess -"

"Surely, you don't call him some horrible modern term, do you?"

"No." François didn't feel the need to mention that he had once, and only once, called Louis "Dad;" it had not gone over well; Louis's face had taken on an expression very like that of someone hearing fingernails on a blackboard, and while he'd never said anything about it, François knew better than to try it again.

He looked at Lestat, and shook his head, emphatically. "No, I don't call him anything modern."

"Then, you must call him your Papa."

"Okay," François agreed. "I think I can do that." He frowned slightly. "But only if you think he won't mind."

"I know he won't," Lestat assured him. "And since I'm your maker, I think you should call me-"

"Lestat." François didn't give him a chance to finish. "Don't push your luck, okay?"

Lestat was about to respond, but something about the look in François's eye told him to drop it. No problem; there was time enough to work out the intricacies of their relationship. "Okay," Lestat replied. "Fair enough. Now, I think we should return, don't you?"

"Yeah," François nodded. "Louis - I mean, Papa will be worried about me. And you," he added, with a grin.

"You know how he is," Lestat said, mirroring the grin. "He's not happy unless he's got something to fret over."

"Yeah, well, I'm just relieved that you're back to normal now," François replied. "Now, with all trouble you get into he won't notice stuff I do near as much."

François laughed, and Lestat joined him. Impulsively, he pulled his youngest fledgling into a full hug, and kissed the top of his head. Much to his surprise, the boy didn't protest, but returned the embrace with genuine warmth. Yes, things were going to be alright now. He was sure of it. Yet again, he'd landed on his feet, he'd triumphed as only the Vampire Lestat could triumph.

He released the boy from the embrace, and ruffled his hair again. "Come on, François de Pointe du Lac. It's time we went home."