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DISCLAIMER: The following stories are all non-profit, amateur efforts not intended to infringe on the rights of Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt, David Geffen, Warner Brothers, Geffen Pictures, Knopf, Randomhouse, the city of New Orleans, the U.S. Constitution, any copyright holders that I might not have thought of or even a certain author who shall remain nameless but who has a set of initials which are, coincidentally enough, just one letter off from spelling "B.S."

With Time: Louis
by The Brat Queen
July, 2000

Winner - Best Short Fic! (2000)

SPOILERS: No. But the backstory bases itself off of all books up to TotBT.

THANKS TO: AprilMist, without whom I wouldn't have been able to give birth to this particular plot bunny and to LadyBD for invaluable input (and understanding).

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is related to With Time: Lestat but only in concept. Both stories can be read independently of each other. And, unlike With Time: Lestat, this has nothing to do with the Dagger backstory.

SUMMARY: Louis makes a final decision.

Betrayal.

Louis shook with it, felt it in his very bones, in his very soul. It was disconnected from him, somehow. Not really the emotion that he felt but rather a reaction to it, a precursor of what he knew he would feel, in enough time.

Now, his body and mind spun independently of each other. He struggled to know, to think, to maintain a semblance of control. To hold on enough that he could be this way, alone, without anyone battering down his door and demanding to talk to him.

Demanding, as though it was their right.

"You -" Louis hissed, but could not continue. Could not command his vocal chords enough to finish. He would, though. That much was for certain. He would take hold of himself. There was no "or" or "otherwise". He would. Period.

He walked through the flat, his steps taking him from the hall, to the dining room, to the kitchen and back again. It was automatic. One foot stepped in front of the other. He attempted to make his mind connect with the actions.

Moonlight filtered in from the parlour windows. It spilled onto the carpet and caressed Louis' cheeks. He felt it burn against his eyelids.

"YOU!" he screamed, feeling the sound rip from his chest and be released into the air, into the very Quarter itself probably. "You - you - you -"

It was a syllable but he seized upon it. "You!" he snarled. His hands lashed out, grabbing on to the wall sconces and tearing them from their mounts. Throwing them to the floor he grabbed on to the wall again, this time tearing at the wallpaper, then the plaster, then the metal wire that supported it. He shredded it with his hands and fingers, feeling the pulse of blood begin as the materials tore at his skin.

"You…" he said again, but choked. Dust swirled around him, covering him in thick white powder. His eyes stung. He blinked rapidly, feeling the plaster grit scratch at his corneas. He slipped down to the floor, sinking to his knees, his hands resting on the rug in front of him, his hair falling over his face as he struggled to breathe.

He heard a sound at the door.

"No!" he screamed. With a power unknown to him since Santiago's attack in Paris he reached out with his mind and slammed the locks shut, shutting down the entire flat at Rue Royale with a single thought, barricading himself in.

"No," he said again, calmer for having done this. He stood, letting the dust fall from him in dizzying clouds, and brushed his hair back. "No."

Turning away from the disaster in front of him, he moved upstairs, walking up the staircase patiently, as a gentleman would, letting his eyes adjust to the faint light as he entered the library then passed through it to the bedroom beyond.

It was blue. Deep, royal blue, touched with gold. A pair of socks lay tossed upon the bed, forgotten.

Louis folded his arms, staring into the room, letting the color of the room fill his senses to the point of blinding him.

"You promised." He felt satisfied, glad to have spoken this.

A wave of nausea touched the back of his head. He swallowed, loosing himself in it.

"Promised," he whispered again, touching the doorframe to steady himself. He pictured himself falling down to his knees again and weeping uncontrollably. He fought against it, refusing to give in.

"Lestat, you promised," he said, his voice becoming cold and steely. He looked into the room, blinking away the throbbing blue colors and forcing the room to snap into focus again. He addressed it as though it would speak to its owner on his behalf. "Lestat you promised me!"

They were outside, he knew. He could feel their presence. He walked into the bedroom and shut the door behind him, sliding Lestat's armoire in front of one door and moving Lestat's desk to block the one beside it.

Alone. He was truly alone.

He moved across the floor, seating himself upon the center of Lestat's bed, curling his legs up under himself in a way he had never done before, not caring now that the position was too casual.

He was shivering. The first wave of rage had left him. He began to think, to process.

They had been so calm, so matter-of-fact as they'd told him. Louis remembered Marius's eyes in particular, how they had been a perfect, crystal blue as he had spoken the words, knowing that they would matter to Louis, but having no idea on Earth of how.

Only Armand had understood. Louis had seen that. It had been a look that Armand gave him before Louis had turned his back on them and closed the door.

Armand, too, had been the one to answer his questions. To tell him the only things that Louis needed to know.

"Did he do it himself?"

"No."

"Did anyone else?"

"No."

An accident, then. Something sudden and without meaning. Nothing that Lestat had caused, nor anything that Louis could hope to avenge. It had, simply, happened.

Marius and Armand would have said more, could have said more, but Louis would not let them. He did not need them to. The importance of the matter came down to one, basic truth:

Lestat had died first.

Without him.

Lestat had promised Louis that would not happen.

It was unacceptable, but not unexpected. It had been Louis' belief for years that God had worked that way. It was the reason why Louis had never set much faith into promises.

He had, however, set his faith in Lestat.

Which made his decision now very easy.

Ignoring the sounds coming from outside, Louis reached out and again made use of his power. He nodded, satisfied, as curls of smoke rose up from the wainscoting. He closed his eyes, folding his hands primly in his lap. He imagined that he would not have to wait long. The flat, he knew from experience, was highly flammable. It wouldn't take long for him to be with Lestat once more.

And that, in the end, was all that mattered.

-fin-