Foster Fledgling
Chapter Twenty-six
"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."
Fin
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