He had to admit, he secretly enjoyed watching Tom react to the glasses. Not because he wanted to antagonize Tom, but rather he truly enjoyed how it felt to see Tom when he took them off. This was a feeling he could definitely get used to.

Not that he was used to it yet. No, not even with nearly a month of this to try. It had been three weeks since Tom had returned to France and three weeks of bliss and sheer terror on both their parts.

Well, if not terror, then hellish attacks of nerves. Neither one of them could quite get over the feeling that any moment now something would pounce.

Although they were certainly getting more and more comfortable with each other.

Comfortable. This was a new word. He'd never really been comfortable with anyone before. Fond of them, fatally in love with them, but not comfortable with them. That was something wholly new but something he most certainly wanted more of.

Likewise, so did Tom. Or so Lestat guessed based upon their current discussion.

"I don't see the problem," Lestat said, running a hand down the front of his jacket to smooth it. In addition to the glasses he was dressed in a white silk shirt, dark grey suit and deep burgundy tie. The expression on Tom's face when he'd seen this had spoken volumes.

"The problem is," Tom's clipped tone announced, "that I hate the commute. I hate tabloids even more. There's no good way out of this and it's driving me almost as crazy as your tailor is."

Lestat blinked. "What's wrong with my tailor?"

Tom threw himself into a nearby chair, gesturing to his comfortably worn sweats. "Man was not born to live in suits, Lestat."

"I look good in suits."

He glared. "Good, yes. Very GQ. Like you stepped off a magazine cover."

"So what's wrong with it?" Lestat asked, sitting down on a couch nearby him. He found himself thrilling to the fact that they were having this conversation - any conversation. That they could was still a novelty to him. (And no, his mind had not forgotten, in fact was in raptures over, the fact that Tom had started this all by wondering what would happen if they were living together.)

"It's not what you'd call comfortable. And what is with the tie?"

He frowned, looking down at it. "It's a perfectly good tie."

"It's around your neck."

"That's where they traditionally go, yes."

Letting out a small, frustrated growl, Tom jumped from the chair and grabbed for the tie. His motions were quick and efficient, but surprisingly gentle as he removed the offensive object from around Lestat's throat, unfastening two buttons of his shirt along the way. "Better," he said with some satisfaction, draping the tie over the back of the chair.

Lestat wondered if Tom had any idea what things like that did to his heart rate. "So," he said, letting his voice slip down to one of his best purrs as he looked up at Tom from underneath his lashes, "is this the sort of thing you intend to do if you move in with me?"

Tom folded his arms. "Of course."

Again Lestat's heartrate found a pattern it had never known before. He reached out, indulging himself in being able to run one hand along the side of Tom's leg. "Well... there's an advantage to it, I suppose."

"Right. I get to influence your wardrobe. Or lack thereof."

"There's that American directness again," Lestat said. Finding that Tom hadn't moved away he let his hand stay right where it was. "So in exchange for letting you have a say in my wardrobe I would get the advantage of your company far more frequently than we have now, this is what I am hearing?"

Tom shrugged, but definitely did not move away. "If it's something you'd find agreeable. And, of course, provided you're as good as you say you are. The last thing I need is this on every trade cover in the world."

There was that. Tom, still being "Tom Cruise", could not run the risk of being known to associate too closely with one Gregory Michaelson, rich and mysterious widower.

And Tom just didn't like his name in the papers as a concept.

"We don't have to do this, you know," Lestat said, moving closer to emphasize the point. "I've been very happy with everything so far. If it's too soon for us to live together..." He let the sentence trail off, letting Tom fill in the blanks. He hoped desperately that his expression also filled in the blanks - that Lestat desperately wanted him as a companion.

Tom moved away, but in doing so grabbed Lestat's hand, dragging him over to the sofa where he settled again with a compact swiftness. "I wouldn't have suggested it if I didn't want it. But there's things to consider, sure. Like your specific situation, as a start."

Lestat found that being right on the edge of laughter - good laughter - was a perpetual state whenever Tom was around and had his mind to it. He let himself be led into the new position with only a cursory and obligatory bit of fuss. "What part of my situation?"

Without thinking about it Tom pulled him a little closer, settling comfortably next to him as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Louis, of course."

He nodded. "I wasn't sure," he said, gesturing to everything around him to indicate the fabrication of a life he'd created for himself. "As for Louis... Oui, there is that."

Tom's eyes narrowed a little. "Don't think I've forgotten about Greg ." He said the offensive word with obvious distaste, as though describing a particularly loathsome plague.

He allowed himself a smile at that. Tom's feelings about "Greg" were another guilty pleasure of his. "Alright," he said, unconsciously rubbing the bridge of his nose just underneath his glasses, "one thing at a time. Yes, I must admit it probably wouldn't be the best of situations if Louis showed up on my doorstep and you were there."

"What would he do? Can you predict it?"

Lestat grimaced. "As I am completely incapable of figuring out anything about the first part of that equation I disqualify myself from the second." He allowed himself a few moments of thought. "I think, though, this falls more under the category of poor form rather than emotions. If I'm with you on a regular basis having a small commute to get to you makes little difference in the intent of the matter. After all, in my time it was perfectly acceptable to..." Lestat stopped, his mind for once realizing his words before they hit his mouth and stopping them before they got there. He let his thought stall right where it was and instead turned and kissed Tom with every ounce of strength and possession he dared place against the younger vampire's mouth. It was an action that would have probably been more effective if Tom hadn't laughed.

Lestat pulled back, telling the case of nerves that welled up inside of his gut to go merrily to Hell. "What?"

Tom tried to contain it, but was completely defeated. "You damn near called me your mistress. Don't deny it."

Lestat wanted to be serious and affronted. He failed miserably. He tried for a look of superiority instead. "I was going to say 'have something on the side'."

Tom couldn't get over the laughing fit, though it was obvious he tried. "I could put on a dress, but I don't know my size. Maybe a wig... naw, you used to wear those, right?" He collapsed, giggling madly.

Now he looked affronted. "Never. I powdered my hair, at best."

"Ok, ok." He struggled to get himself under control. "So I won't be your mistress," he sputtered again, obviously unable to help it, "until Louis shows up. At which point I'll probably die, so why not laugh?"

And now came serious. With one hand he grabbed a fistful of Tom's shirt and pulled him close enough that he was nearly on his lap. "If anyone dares to suggest you are anything like a side fling for me I shall personally see to them."

And then Lestat's brain heard what he said, panicked, but approved.

Tom got serious in a hurry. "Hang on. That's not what I meant to say."

He forgot how dangerous he looked when he got angry. He tried to calm down as rapidly as he could. "I'm sorry. I just... dislike the thought of such things being said about you."

"Ok." He took a long, slow breath. "No one is saying things about me like that. I was worried what Louis would think. That's it."

He forced himself to calm down another notch. "Alright. I'm sorry. I don't know what got into me." Which, he reflected, was true enough in its way. "As for Louis, I do not know. I think he will know how I feel about it all one way or another, for what that is worth."

"How you feel about it all?"

"I want you here."

Tom looked at him, suddenly very serious. "Louis or me. Choose."

Lestat's heart constricted so tightly he didn't know if he could draw breath. "I... I..."

His expression was relentless. "He walks in and sees what's going on, then leaves. Or there's a fight. A divorce. Something. Understand exactly what you're getting into before you do it - you may be making that choice right now." His voice dropped, soft, almost sad. "Can you live with it?"

A weight came upon Lestat's shoulders that had not been there for a while. He let himself truly feel it, truly feel all of what Tom reminded him of. He tried to imagine a life without Louis.

Then he tried to imagine a life without Tom.

Finally, trying to breathe once more, he answered. "I don't want to loose him. I love him. You know that. But..." he closed his eyes, feeling all of what Tom had said, and then reminding himself of everything he himself had learned. He opened his eyes, meeting Tom's. When he spoke his voice was low, enunciating each word clearly. "But I will not make the same mistakes twice. I will not shut myself away for the greater good. I love Louis. I love you. What Louis does I cannot control. What you do I cannot control. I can control myself. I can speak for myself. I know what I want. There is nothing else I can lay claim to."

"And you want me here, understanding all that?"

"Yes."

"Then I'm here."

It was Lestat's turn to be relentless. "Even though that means my feelings are for both you and he?"

Tom grinned. "Oh yeah. If you actually left him for me, there's no way I could handle it. I'd only come into it like this." A stormy look clouded his smile. "Well, no. That's not quite right. Louis is a part of your life. I'd rather he knew about this. I'd much rather have his blessing. But... damn. You know what I mean. Right?"

Lestat reached out to cover one of Tom's hands with his. He was surprised to find his hand was shaking, a little, although perhaps not enough for Tom to notice. "I know. And I think you know what I mean when I say I do not want to give up being his husband."

"Yeah, I do." Tom swallowed, looking to the wall once more. "A husband is a special thing. It would be nice if yours was here."

"Yours too, I imagine."

The look of pain which flickered across Tom's face was quickly hidden. "He's in California." He might have said "on the moon" with the same weight. Or "dead."

He squeezed Tom's hand gently, then gave up on subtlety and reached to pull Tom closer - letting him back off from the embrace if he wanted. "I'm sorry."

Tom settled against him lightly. "Don't be. It's a situation that he and I worked hard to create. I don't know if it can be fixed at this point. But whatever our relationship is, we made it that way ourselves."

Lestat nodded, then decided to change tracks to preserve both their sanities. "Alright then, so we've given you the right to change my wardrobe and me the right to screw up. Correct so far?"

"Um, yeah. And me to melt all pairs of glasses in the household."

A corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't remember agreeing to that."

Tom nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yeah, you did." He grinned. "I was here. Heard it all. It was beautiful. Very gutsy on your part. Remember how I told you how proud I was of you? And that glasses just make you look old?"

"I'm 239 I can't imagine they do anything but. Besides," he said, with a grin that was purely his own, "we don't want anyone thinking you've suddenly developed a habit of robbing the cradle now do we?"

His eyes were gravely concerned. "Old, Lestat. I mean it. Haggard, even. I mean, hey, if you want to set a geriatric fashion statement, I'll stand by you... but I thought you should know." He considered. "I could get you a cane, maybe. Or how about a walker? Go with the image."

Lestat stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle and pulling Tom a little bit closer to him in the process. "I don't know, Tom. They certainly seem to draw your attention. If I took them off I think I would be remarkably dull."

The reply was succinct. "I like dull."

He quirked an eyebrow. "A Hollywood man like yourself? No, you'd be bored."

"Dull is good."

"I thought that was greed."

"That too."

He grinned. "Alright, so you dislike the glasses. What do you suggest?"

"Melting them. Pay attention."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?"

Tom went on to take advantage of a little known but undeniable fact - Lestat was incredibly ticklish.

Lestat said something particularly interesting in French, tried to get away, and found himself lying underneath Tom anyway. Which, he reflected, wasn't all bad. He also smugly noted that the glasses were still on. "No fair, Cruise," he gasped. "Definitely no fair."

When he was sure he had Lestat's attention, Tom backed off a little, grinning. "Now. About your wardrobe."

Lestat looked up at him and out from underneath hair that was slowly falling out of his ponytail. "What about it?"

Tom saved him the trouble by reaching out to relieve him of both the band around his hair and his glasses. "I think you should wear a suit no more than once, possibly twice a month. Until we break you of this new habit."

"Oh do you?" he shifted his weight under Tom, enjoying the look on his face. "And what do I get in return for this?"

He considered. "My undivided attention?"

He smiled. "So you would move in with me?"

Nodding slowly, Tom shifted, watching Lestat gasp. "I'd move in with You, yeah."

Ah yes, this was something he could definitely suffer. "Alright," he said, his voice a soft, French purr, "you live with me, you change my wardrobe...." he grinned "I keep the glasses."

He shook his head. "Greed is good. So I'll get greedy."

"So am I," Lestat grinned, finding it was instinctual to match Tom's motions. "The glasses stay."

Tom nuzzled Lestat's throat, very lightly. "Please?"

He closed his eyes, letting himself feel Tom's caress. With one hand he reached up to toy with Tom's hair. "I can't say you don't make a convincing argument..."

He moved up to nibble his ear lobe. "You don't need them."

"Not true, they do help." Lestat's internal temperature had finally risen enough he decided turnabout was fair play. With his free hand he began to run his fingers along the inside of the waist of Tom's sweatpants. "And even you agree that physical disguise is useful."

"True," he gasped slightly. "But you're powerful enough to control the trances. Not like some junior fledglings I know." He grinned, nipping just under the ears. "They weigh down your face."

His free hand went lower. "They do not. I should think you'd have noticed how -" he gasped as Tom hit a tender spot "- light they are... considering how many pairs you've broken."

"Then why do you keep rubbing your nose?"

He frowned, pausing in his activity. "Doing what?"

Tom raised his head to look at Lestat directly. "You rub the bridge of your nose. Constantly."

The frown deepened. "Really?"

He nodded solemnly. "That's not all."

"What?"

"Your tie. Ever notice how you fiddle with it? Trying to get it comfortable?"

Tension that he didn't realize he'd been feeling suddenly left his body. He pulled his hands back, propping himself up on his elbows as he considered what Tom said. True enough, his mind supplied the memories. "I hadn't noticed. To be honest I'm not overly fond of ties, though."

Tom shrugged. "There's only one guy I know who wears them regularly." Voice softer, expression determined he added, "The world would be better off if there were less suits in it."

The frown came back. "Who?"

"Suits. Professional persons of business."

He smiled, shaking his head. "No, who do you know, I meant."

Tom considered. "You know, there's lots of ways to conduct business. I'm good at nearly all of them. I could help you, if you'd like."

He thought about asking again, but then decided that if Tom did not want to supply the information, he wouldn't push. It was, he reflected, still a bit too early in the relationship for either of them.

Relationship. That was a nice word.

"Help me how?" he asked.

"I could supply you with contacts. Help you in most industries. If you tell me more about what you're managing, I could help take some of the burden. One of the things I'm best at is managing a mobile office. You could work from home, guaranteed."

He considered this. It held appeal, although only a little. "And what would I do in the meanwhile?" he asked with honest curiosity, not dismissing the idea.

"Develop outside interests. Hobbies." He smiled just a little. "Get to know other people better."

He ran a hand up Tom's thigh. "That one I like," he smiled. "The others I don't know about. Like what?"

"Music."

He rolled this over in his mind. "I don't know. I like music, but I don't know if I want to be a musician again. It was really a means to an end more than anything."

"What about writing?"

He considered this too. His mouth quirked in a light grin. "I write about what I feel passionate about. And since a novel about The Vampire Tom Cruise would then be my next likely subject..."

"Ok, writing sucks. I always thought so in school." He considered again. "What are your interests?"

Lestat grew quiet. He shrugged, looking away. "I haven't really had any. I've been too busy... well, reacting to the whole damn world." He looked back at Tom. "I can't remember the last time I ever did something just because I liked it." A grin appeared on his face then. He reached up to touch Tom's cheek. "Well, besides this. And even this I'm still feeling my way with."

Surprised, Tom held him a little closer. "Really? Well, ok. You keep going to the ballet, right? But I'm going to assume that you don't want to become a dancer."

He leaned back, shifting so that he was slightly propped up and therefore closer to Tom. He was amazed that he could be in such a position and relaxed . With anyone. In response to the question he grinned again. "Non. I used to wish to sleep with the dancers but somehow I do not think that's the sort of interest you were hoping to cultivate."

"Didn't think so." He shrugged and shifted so that his leg brushed Lestat's inner thigh, smiling at the reaction. "You could always start your own dance troupe."

His eyes closed and his mind became too heated to form a coherent reply. Two breaths later he was able to recover enough to make the attempt. "I don't know, Tom. You'd trust me alone with all those shapely dancers?" Surprising himself, he ran his hands over Tom's buttocks and pulled him closer to emphasize his point.

"I trust you, yeah." To stress the point he leaned in to kiss him, taking his time, making a thorough job of it.

So this is what it's like to melt, he thought, returning the kiss and hoping like Hell it felt that way for Tom. With one movement he rocked his hips into Tom's and drew Tom that much closer, moving his hands up to tangle in his hair. "God," he whispered, breathless, "do you have any idea what you do to me?"

He shook his head, whispering against his lips. "No. Probably not. Do you want to get out of here?"

It took him a moment to realize Tom meant get out of the apartment, not the embrace. This answer was easy. The more he talked with Tom the more stifling the apartment felt. "Yes. With you, anywhere."

"Cool." He slowly disentangled himself and sat up, making sure to stay as close as possible while still making progress toward the door.

Lestat followed, pausing only long enough to snatch up his coat and put it on. "Where are we going?"

"Shopping." Tom called the answer over his shoulder as he opened the door. "You need new clothes."

Lestat let his eyes rake over Tom's sweats. " I do?"

He grinned. "Exactly."

Lestat laughed despite himself. "Do you always try this hard to impress someone, Cruise?"

Tom blinked, then raised an eyebrow. "No. Not normally. The last one I tried this hard with was Coppola, I think."

Lestat rolled this over in his mind. "You consider me as impressive as Coppola?"

Tom was so startled that he simply stared for a moment. Then he tilted his head back and laughed. "Hell no! Coppola? Impressive? No no. He's," he tried to calm a little, "a bear. Not impressive. I just had to get the part, that's all. My whole career depended on it, that sort of thing. You're a hell of a lot more impressive than Coppola."

He allowed himself a satisfied grin. "Good," he nodded toward the door. "Alright then, let's get you a new wardrobe."

"Oh no," he replied, closing the door. "You're going to dress for comfort."

"You're going to put me in sweats, I just know it."

"Yep. You'll love it."

He tried to picture himself in sweats and failed. In truth the most casual he'd ever worn in this current era had been jeans. Which, he admitted, he did like. Just not recently. Not since Louis.

There was another small spasm to his heart again. Very soft, in the back of his mind, he heard Tom's voice Louis or me. Choose. He felt a faint tremor, then looked up at Tom, hoping his emotions did not show. "Tom?"

Tom turned back, smiling at him. "Yeah?"

He couldn't help but smile in return. "You're truly moving in with me?"

Tom looked up the hall, then down, then pounced, pressing Lestat hard against the wall, kissing him deeply. Want me to? Seriously?

The answer was immediate. Yes. Yes. Yes. He returned the kiss, savoring the feel of Tom's body beside his. He was still getting used to all of the curves and planes of Tom's form. His hands enjoyed the opportunity to learn more about him in the embrace. "Yes," he said again, aloud. Then grinned as an idea occurred to him. He fumbled in his pocket, then pulled out a small, sliver bundle. "Then here, take your keys. And make sure to make me a set, would you?"

Tom looked at the keys thoughtfully before grinning. He twirled them around his finger for a second, then pocketed them, moving back down the hall. "We've gotta get you sweatpants with pockets. That's important."

"Frenchmen don't wear sweats, Tom," he said following him, "it's against our national heritage."

"They only sell them for the American tourists, right?"

"They shoot smugglers of them at the gates," he responded, giving him what he thought was a fairly smug look before the two of them left the building.

Instinctively they both moved fast - Lestat slowing down his own natural speed just a bit when he remembered Tom would have a hard time keeping up - as they became an unseen blur to the mortals around him. After a bit of silent emotional argument, they ended up by a large clothing store which was guaranteed to have a little bit of everything in it. With a few twists of Lestat's mind the building was open to them and they were inside without any locks or security devices being none the wiser.

Tom headed at once for Athletic Wear.

With a last, longing look towards Men's Suits Lestat followed. "Bike shorts are right out you realize."

"You'd look ridiculous," Tom answered at once, moving towards work out accessories. "Your legs are too skinny and you need a tan to pull off the look." He grinned, flaunting his own deep, if slightly irregular, tanline.

Lestat walked past the racks of clothes, trying to picture himself wearing any of them and failing miserably. Just for the reaction he said "I could always go get another one, if that helps."

Tom looked at him appraisingly. "Might help. But for now, try this." He pulled out a soft, fleece-lined black sweat suit, tailored enough to be fashionable, but still sinfully comfortable.

Two eyebrows raised. "On?"

"On. You."

Lestat stared at it long and hard, then looked up at Tom, then back to the suit. He decided the argument wasn't going to go anywhere and he might as well try everything once.

(And a part of him, a very small and stifled part of him, thrilled to be doing something new.)

Feeling a bit more like himself, he stripped off his coat and shirt right there and held out his hands for the top. "So what does one do with this?"

He considered it for a long moment, then put it back. "Ignore it. Not you. Try the pants. I'll be back in a moment."

Lestat shrugged, putting the shirt and jacket aside and stripping out of his pants and shoes. After a moment of making sure which way went forward, he slipped on the pants and waited for Tom.

Unconsciously, he rubbed his nose, adjusting glasses that weren't there.

Two seconds later, he realized that he did it. A small shiver went through him and he folded his arms instead, shoving all of the negative emotions somewhere else for a change.

A few minutes later Tom returned, bearing a blue tank top with a small white stripe across it. "Try this. With a black jacket on top of it, I think. After that, sneakers."

In for a penny, he thought and slipped the top on. "I've done sneakers before," he said. "With James. How in Hell do mortals wear those?"

"Comfortably." He held the coat out for him, then surveyed the image. Nodding with satisfaction, he gently turned Lestat around before he could glance at a mirror. "Shoes."

Lestat quickly reached to grab his clothes before Tom left them behind. "They're horrendously leaky."

"Leaky?" Without ceremony he started pulling shoes from the shelves the moment they reached that department.

Lestat sat down on a chair, his clothes beside him, watching Tom search. Tom had interesting lines to his face when he'd set himself on a goal. He wondered if Tom even realized that. "Yes. In snow."

He finally found the pair he wanted, snatched up a pair of socks and returned. "Remember, comfort is everything. Too big is just as bad as too small. Try them on while you explain this snow leak thing to me."

Obediently he put shoes and socks on. "If you wear them in snow," he said simply, "they leak. Which is cold, and rather miserable, and I never understood how mortals could stand it."

Tom looked at him quizzically. "You don't wear sweats in snow. You wear jeans in snow. Take a look." He gestured toward a nearby mirror. "I think you'll like it."

"Tell that to a..." he paused, doing the math, "231 year old fool in the body of a mortal for the first time since he was 23." He stood, moving to the mirror. He had to admit that the effect looked good, but he wasn't sure of how it felt. "I don't know, Tom..."

"Move around."

"How?"

Grinning, Tom moved up behind him, massaging his shoulders. "Any way that feels good, champ. These clothes are made to move with you. Comfort is everything."

"Champ," he mouthed, being reminded, not for the first time, that Tom was American. He grinned, shook his head, and tried walking around for a start. "I'll grant they move, but I'm not sure if they are me."

"You look great."

He looked at himself in the mirror again. He grinned, suddenly, "I'll wear this in the house if I can wear glasses outside of it."

"Why would you want to?" Tom asked, smile in place even if the eyes glittered a bit. "If you move the office, you don't have to deal with the jerks who are used to seeing you in glasses. And if you truly object to sweats, there's always leisure wear. Or jeans. Jeans are great."

"I don't object, I'm just not used to them. Give me a little time," he said, "to see if maybe I can be. That's part of the point, right? To see what I like? And I do like jeans and I did like my glasses. Not all the time, just when we need to be out, alright?" he offered a quick grin. "Call me Clark Kent if you must, but I'd just prefer a little something physical to help deflect cameras. Surely you of all people can understand that."

"I can understand it," Tom said slowly. "If that's all you're using them for."

"On my honor as a bloodthirsty murderer."

"Ok then. You've got one sweatsuit. You'll need others."

He smiled, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. "Lead on. And I'd love jeans. I look good in jeans."

"Oh yeah. They're over here."

He took one last look at the stranger in the mirror, then straightened his shoulders and told himself to stop being such a damned fool who was too frightened of himself to act. With that final curse in his own direction, he turned and followed Tom. "So we're going for something of a beach bum look?"

"Anything besides an executive. It doesn't matter what. I'll even put up with Bermuda shorts if I have to."

Lestat had the decency to shudder. "I think not. I can do beach bum. Of course then everyone thinks I'm a college student."

"Oh, no! Not a college student. How many responsibilities could one of those have?"

He blinked. "I honestly don't know."

"How about, finals in 3 months, and until then nothing but relaxation?"

"Ah," he said, flipping through piles of sweat shirts. He felt he could perhaps wear sweatshirts. "And finals would be...?"

"Exams. A big test to make sure you didn't skip every class, only most of them."

"Really?" he nodded, filing this information away for later. "I never understood how schools worked. I mean I've read a great deal, of course, but it's not quite the same as being there." He laughed. "Of course if I was mortal right now that's probably where I'd be. Can you imagine me in the middle of a university classroom?"

Tom tilted his head, regarding him thoughtfully. "You'd be a hell of a student."

"Oh I can't imagine that," he said. He shrugged off the shirt and jacket to try on a pale purple sweatshirt. "I'd ask all the wrong questions. I'm famous for that."

Tom shrugged. "No such thing as a dumb question."

"Just wait, I'll get around to it one of these days with you and I," he said. He took the shirt of, placed it with the others Tom had picked for him, and continued to look down at the table to see what else was there.

"Are you dumb?"

That brought him up short. It was almost as though Tom had asked if he were a man. He looked up at Tom, knowing his expression must have been strange. "Of course. Everyone knows that."

"Why?"

Again the question brought him up short. His mouth opened and shut a few times before he could find the words. "Because... I'm me."

"What's a wrong question? If you don't mind my asking, I mean."

"I don't know," he said, shrugging. He turned back to the table for something to do with his hands. "Most of them. I never understand what's happening."

"Like what?"

"Like ever," he said, trying to dismiss it with a wave of his hand. "That is, if I'm in charge of a situation then I usually understand it. I usually know what I'm doing and what will happen because of it. Like the concert," he said, looking up to see if Tom remembered. He looked back down again as he continued. "But the rest of the time I have no idea. What people say, why they say it, why things happen the way they do..." he stopped, focusing his attention very closely on the table to avoid thinking about the things he was actually saying. "That's always the way, isn't it? Lestat never knows and everyone knows not to listen to him."

"I've never heard that. Not from anyone, at any time. In fact, everyone I know either respects you, or fears you. Sometimes both." He considered. "I'll admit, you have a reputation for not thinking things to the long term consequences, but it's not because you can't. Just that you're impulsive. At least, that's what I've heard."

"Impulsive means stupid."

Tom frowned. "Impulsive generally means a person who acts on impulse. Not stupid. Who the hell sold you this bill of goods?"

"I don't know," he said, his voice sharp, "but it seems to me that someone who acts without thinking is thoughtless and therefore stupid."

"No," he said simply. "Just impulsive. Lestat, you're not stupid. Honestly."

A small part of him, the same part that liked doing all of these new things in the first place, took Tom's words to heart. Even still he thought about dismissing what Tom had said. But when he met those green eyes again he found himself daring to do something else. "I still don't understand things, half of the time," he said, softly.

"That's ok. Just ask if you don't understand. Like you did in school."

"I think you'd grow sick of me if I did that everytime I needed to."

Tom sighed. "Whoever taught you to think this way should be shot. Ask me questions, ok? If not me, other people. But go ahead and ask."

Surprising himself, he answered honestly. "Alright."

He smiled, then leaned in to kiss him. "Great. Have any questions right now?"

This one was easy. "Do that again?"

The kiss lasted longer, still light, just a little teasing.

Yes, he thought, sliding his arms around Tom, this felt good. He chased after him with his mouth, deepening the kiss just to taste him.

Tom smiled against him. "See? Questions aren't bad. Told you."

He gave Tom his best wolfish grin, "Did you enjoy it?"

"The kiss?"

"Yes."

"Want me to do it again?"

Tom's voice was softer this time. "Please."

He laughed, softly, teasing Tom's lips as he came closer. "You do interesting things to my heartrate, Cruise," he said. He kissed him again, letting himself thrill to the fact that he could, that they were alone, and that no one was there to stop them.

Or tell him he was wrong.

Or, in fact, if anyone did....

...that Tom would tell them to go to Hell.

He made the kiss deeper still.

Tom broke the kiss slowly, smiling against his lips. "I should have put you in sweat pants a long time ago."

Lestat felt a small shudder go through him as the last of his nerves vanished. His hands found a natural position on the small of Tom's back. He shifted, pressing Tom's weight against the display table. "Perhaps you should have, Monsieur Cruise. Anything else you'd like to put me into?"

His smile, posture and attitude were all very relaxed. "You tell me. I'd just like you to be happy. Any guy who dresses like Greg has got to be miserable."

"You wear suits."

"I wear them occasionally," he conceded. "I don't live in them."

Lestat couldn't help a small chuckle. "This is true," he said, running a hand under the waistband of Tom's sweats. "I never would have guessed that about you, you know."

He looked surprised. "That I live in suits, or that I don't?"

"That you don't," he said, letting his hand stay where it was. He looked at Tom closely. "'Tom Cruise' is such a personality... you are unexpected."

Tom sighed, looking a little uncomfortable. "What the machine creates can't be lived up to. That's why privacy is so important." He shrugged, looking away. "What happens when they find out you're just a guy?"

He ducked his head to meet Tom's eyes. "I've been wondering the same thing about you and me," he said, softly.

Frowning, Tom just looked at him for clarification.

Lestat freed his hand and with one finger traced Tom's jawline. "What happens when people find out The Vampire Lestat is 'just a guy'? Charismatic, but flawed."

He groaned. "If you're not just a guy, you've got no business being with me. I'm nothing special, I swear it."

"I don't know about that," Lestat said, brushing a light kiss against his cheek. He leaned in to whisper into Tom's ear. "I know of only three men I have ever loved."

Tom grinned, then shoved away from the table. "We're shopping, remember." He softened his words with a quick kiss to the cheek, and a whispered "I love you, too."

"Shopping," Lestat said, glancing over the pile of shirts he'd made. He grinned. "I like shopping." He was pleased to hear a note of himself in his voice - something of the man he knew, not the invisible violet he'd turned himself into. He glanced at Tom's reflection in a mirror as he resumed his search of the racks and realized that Tom brought this out in him. Somehow he was more himself with Tom. With a true Lestatian grin he pounced, wrapping his arms around Tom as tightly as he dared and kissing him loud enough to make both of their ears ring. Love you, Thomas.

"This isn't shopping," came the token protest, even as he returned the kiss.

"No," he smiled as he ran his hands under Tom's shirt, caressing his chest. "No it isn't."

Tom shuddered, returning the caress, but with restraint. "I'm not sure I can do this in a department store. Call me old fashioned."

"That's ok," Lestat said as he began to tug Tom's shirt off, "I'm just trying to even the odds. If you're playing dress up with me I think it's only fair I get to do the same with you."

"NO suits."

"Spoilsport," he gave Tom his best pout then pulled Tom's shirt off the rest of the way. "Sit tight, I'm going to go find something for you."

Arms crossed, watching with interest, Tom waited as instructed.

Lestat kept the shirt in his hands as he made his way to another section of menswear to find the shirt he had in mind. After a few moments of search he pulled a light sweater out of a pile that matched the size of Tom's sweatshirt perfectly. As another rack of clothes caught his eye he sent a bemused thought to Tom. I suppose getting you to take off your pants is out of the question?

I'm in Scientology for the Army. You know that. Or did you?

Lestat frowned, pulling a few pairs of jeans from the rack in various sizes and returning to Tom. "Army?"

Tom shrugged. "I'm not sure if I should be embarrassed or not. If you're not Jewish in Hollywood, you're no one. I was raised Irish Catholic. Scientology was a great way to make contacts. One division of it has an army, which is the part I'm associated with." He grinned again, deliberately showing his fangs. "Not that it matters now, but when a mortal has an army, it's normally considered useful."

"Really?" he pondered this as he unfolded the shirt and held it out for Tom to put on. It was a loose-fitting shirt of a dark grey and white weave. "Why would you want an army?"

He gazed innocently at the ceiling. "If the choice is to have one, or not have one, why not have one?"

"Take off your shoes," Lestat said, unfolding the jeans. "And I'm still not sure I understand, although I suppose with even us it could be helpful."

Tom slipped out of his shoes, then pants. "SeaOrg is an organization of blindly devoted followers. It's an army based on philosophy doubling as religion, which makes it a cult twice over. I'll deny this to anyone but you, understood?" He waited until he got confirmation before he continued. "Hollywood can only offer so much influence, and I had gone just about as high as possible there. So the next realm?" He looked thoughtful. "Politics would actually have been a demotion, but there's no way I could have been on top of the ladder forever. I had to make long term plans. Armies are influential, especially if they're based on philosophy. Make sense?"

He handed over a pair of washed black jeans. "I suppose. But to what end?"

"To wield unquestioned influence of ones environment in the future." He buttoned the jeans, bending them a little at the knees. "Having been on the top, I wasn't really thrilled with the idea of a backslide."

Lestat walked a circle around Tom, brushing off imaginary dirt every so often as he did. "And now?"

"Now? I have another mountain to climb. It's the next logical step."

"What is?"

He folded his arms, cocking an eyebrow at Lestat. "Being a vampire. Who needs an army when the world just became a foodsource?"

Lestat found himself bursting out with laughter. "My God you're fun. I like you." He kissed Tom affectionately then turned him towards a mirror. "What do you think? This is my taste in casual."

Tom observed from a few angles. "Frankly, it's my taste too." He suddenly grinned wide. 'I just had to see what you looked like in sweats, that's all."

Lestat shrugged, holding his arms out and turning so Tom could get a good look at the pants. "Your thoughts?"

"I like it. In fact, I'll take it."

He grinned. "But not here. All talk and no action, Cruise."

"I'm not French."

"So you'd make love with me if we were in an American store then?"

"No, I'd make love to you if I hadn't been raised in Kentucky."

"Ah. Alright then. Because there's a Gap just down the block if you change your mind."

"Not everything is sex, Lestat."

He held his hands up defensively. "Kidding. Sorry. I'm not used to talking to Americans, just writing for them."

Tom smiled. "None taken. Sorry." He stretched. "Shopping just isn't my thing. Maybe that's French too. I could learn from you."

He leaned against one of the tables, his arms folded comfortably. "I used to do this a lot. You should have seen Rue Royale - I was constantly filling it with some new thing. Louis used to say my shoes alone were enough to take up half of the house."

"I don't doubt it. If my religion is influence, yours is definitely shopping. So what should we do next, great guru?"

Lestat laughed. "Jeans for me. Can you carry those?" he gestured to the sweatshirts he'd piled up on the table.

In response Tom gathered up the items in question. "No prob."

He lead the way towards casual wear, once again slipping off his pants to try on new ones. "Help me find blue jeans. I look good in those."

Tom dumped the sweats, then started rooting around in piles of denim. "So, you're going to retire the three-piece things then?"

"Maybe. We still haven't thought of something else for me to do."

"I've been thinking about it. What about an art gallery? You're always in a museum of something or other."

His eyebrows quirked up just a little at this. He looked over at Tom with interest. "Doing what?"

He eyed him. "Management is out of the question?"

He shook his head. "Not if you want me out of suits," he flashed a quick grin, "or no longer acting stuck up. I've met managers, they're worse than my business partners."

"Hell no. Well," Tom spread his hands helplessly, "why not create something? Art is a wide open field, and I guarantee you won't paint in a $2,000 suit."

He laughed, turning back to the jeans, "Ah no. No help there, I'm afraid. I'm no Marius."

Tom groaned. "That is one of hundreds of styles of art. If realism isn't your thing, why not abstract?"

He laughed again, shaking his head and turning his attention to shirts. "No, that couldn't work either because..."

"Because...?" Tom paused, pair of jeans in hand, looking over at him.

Lestat blinked, thinking it over.

Amused, Tom straightened, pushing his hair out of his face so he could watch Lestat more closely.

An image played in Lestat's mind. It was the thought of him, paintbrush in hand, attacking a canvas. And with that thought came the idea of letting out all the anger, frustration and repression he'd been feeling for So Damn Long. His mouth twitched. He covered it with a hand, knowing what was coming.

Tom cocked his head, simply watching.

It was just two moments later when the laughter came. He bent over double, hand still over his mouth and laughed , laughed in a way that he hadn't in over three years. He took in great gulps of air, trying to control it, then gave up, letting himself get lost in the bubbling golden wave of amusement that wracked through his body.

Shaking his head, Tom continued to paw through the piles of jeans.

"Ah God," he gasped, wiping away the blood tears that had begun to flow. He struggled to talk through the laughing fit. "Ah God ! It's too perfect!"

He couldn't help himself - laughter was contagious. "Why is it perfect?" Tom laughed, giving up on the jeans entirely.

"Just..." he waved one hand, trying to indicate the grandness of the scheme as the laughter kept coming, "imagine it! Me! That! With -" and here the laughter came harder "-Marius...."

"I Don't get it. Marius is a realist, right?"

Lestat nodded, helplessly.

"So...?"

He gave up on talking, choosing to silently show Tom the image he'd just shown himself and how it felt to think of doing something that was so unlike anything he or anyone else in the coven had ever done before. How perfectly, wonderfully freeing it had felt.

Tom took it in, then moved in to hold him. Do it, if it will make you that happy.

Instinctively he began to kiss Tom where ever he could reach as the laughter began to fade. "It's perfect," he whispered, his voice hoarse from the exercise. "Absolutely perfect."

He nuzzled him back. "Next stop, art supply shop?"

He nodded. "Oui, please." He gave Tom one last kiss then gathered up all of the clothes they'd found. A quick stop behind one of the registers provided bags to carry them in. After choosing a pair of blue jeans, a white pullover and the sneakers Tom had picked for him he placed the rest into bags. He pulled out his wallet, then, and stared at the register. "How much...?"

Tom glanced at the bags, did a quick mental calculation, then took Lestat's wallet and dropped several bills near the register. "Give them a tip for causing a mess."

He smiled and kissed Tom on principle. "Thank you. Art supplies?"

Tom nodded, then followed him out the door.

It was going well. Sort of. Just the other day Tom caught Lestat wearing sweats of his own free will. He was wearing the suits (and those damned glasses) less often. However, it wasn't enough. "Greg" was still alive and well, if not a little reclusive of late.

So now what?

There were a lot of options to consider, one more obvious than most. A change of scene was called for. It was still too obvious for Lestat to think of himself as an executive, especially when his apartment screamed "CEO". New surroundings, new attitude. But then what?

And while asking himself that, another, softer voice asked "And why are you doing any of this?"

It was a question Tom didn't like to consider. In truth, he wasn't sure why he was doing it. His instincts hated the Gregory persona, knew it had to go. But... to be replaced by what? Why did Tom bother with it all? It wasn't as though it was really his place. This was, ultimately, between Louis and Lestat.

He went 'round on the question, never arriving at a satisfactory conclusion. All the while, however, he maintained a constant war against Gregory. The walls had cracked, that much was obvious. Tom wanted them obliterated, no matter the whys of it.

He maneuvered around a largish box of supplies, shaking his head. When Lestat shopped, he was a force of nature. There were now enough art supplies in his flat to equip a small university - most still in the cartons they had arrived in. "We're going to run out of wall space," he mused, looking at the different sizes of canvas which rested against a wall of the bedroom.

Then he looked up, distracted. "Not again," he muttered under his breath. Tom put the canvas back before walking quietly to Lestat's office, listening as his voice became more insistent with every word.

The view was somewhat better than it had been. Though he wore slacks and a shirt the look on the whole was far more informal than anything "Gregory" would have worn. The gold-rimmed glasses were left carelessly on Lestat's desk as Lestat himself, hair falling out of his ponytail, paced back and forth behind his desk and continued his argument with whoever was on the other end of the line. Tom listened as Lestat's voice became angry, then intense, then rather deadly quiet as the conversation ended, the phone was clicked off and then pitched with perfect aim into a nearby fishtank.

His walk was deceptively casual as Tom retrieved the phone. "What did the fish ever do to you?"

"More to the point I liked that phone," Lestat said. He continued to pace, his motions frustrated. "This, this is why I hate talking with him."

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Him?"

"Mr. Bow-To-My-College-Degree Franklin of Go-To-Hell Washington, USA," Lestat snapped, immediately making a motion with his hand to tell Tom the anger was not intended for him, "He's trying to take over and I refuse to let the little pissant even try."

"Take over?"

He gestured to the papers that were scattered over his desk. "The business in America. Little bastard got enough control of things before Louis left that he felt he could fill his place once he'd gone." Lestat's grin was feral. "I disagree."

"How much of the company does he own?"

Lestat grimaced, finally sitting down at his desk. He gestured helplessly at the papers in front of him. "That's one of the things we are arguing about. Damned if I know, I'm just of the opinion it's too much."

"May I?" Tom gestured to the papers.

Lestat handed them over. "Be my guest. Apparently I don't know nearly enough English or Latin for this sort of thing."

Tom reached for the papers, scanning them quickly. Then he frowned. He sat as he read, reaching for sheet after sheet, then stacking them in neat piles. Finally he sighed. "He doesn't own any of the company. He's elected by the board of directors. What he's banking on, from the look of it, is that you're so unfamiliar with the affairs of the company that you won't figure out he's a stuffed shirt puppet. Influence the board, he has his walking papers. Easy as that."

Lestat frowned. "Really?"

"Really. Lestat," he spread his hands wide, as non-threatening as he could manage, "how can I say this? You're good at many things. But this may not be exactly one of your strengths."

"Oh you think?" again he made a gesture of apology. "Sorry. It's just been difficult. I don't want to loose this but..." he trailed off, shrugging.

"No insult intended," Tom added hastily. "Maybe I should have said that you're good, but this is still too much for one person. No one can do everything on his own. Wouldn't you agree?'

Lestat leaned forward, balancing his elbows on the desk and running his hands through his hair. Even more strands of hair fell from the ponytail as he sighed from that position. "Oui. And you did not insult, just pinpoint my frustration."

"Lestat," Tom said thoughtfully, "do you know what the movie making industry is?"

Lestat looked up, blinking. "Something you're involved with?"

He grinned. "It's a business . One I'm good at. I'm no artist. Truth be told, I'm barely an actor. But I'm damn good at business."

A fond smile came across Lestat's lips. "I thought you were pretty good."

"Yeah, well," Tom managed a slight flush, "anyway, I can help you, if you'd like."

"In what way?"

"Like I just did. Or other ways. I could, for example," he fought to keep his tone of voice casual, "help free up time for your art."

Lestat nodded towards the piles of paper on his desk. "You can make heads or tails of any of this?"

Tom pointed to the piles he made. "That's important. That pile, bullshit. This pile comes from people who, if they addressed me like that, would be fired. The rest of it is low priority grunt work that you can delegate elsewhere."

Eyebrows raised. "Do you like it?"

"Business?"

"Yes."

He nodded, grinning a little. "It's something I'm good at."

Lestat didn't hesitate. "Take it. Please. Just... let me know what's going on, alright? Give me final decision. Otherwise it's all yours."

"Really?" He couldn't tell if Lestat was joking or not.

"Please," he shoved the remaining paperwork over towards Tom. "I know people, I don't know this."

"You got it." Tom settled in at once, glancing over at the paperwork. "I'll need your files, and I'll need to talk to the lawyers, of course. Do you have administrative help? How many companies are you managing? What's the end goal, here? Should I maintain or progress?"

Lestat laughed, watching him. "There are some people to take care of the day to day things, I'm managing all of Louis' companies and investments and a bit of both. How's that?"

"Good to start with. Leave everything to me." He grinned. "So, Greg's retiring, right?"

Lestat reached out to lightly touch the glasses that sat on the desk. He returned Tom's grin. "You're very tenatous."

He shrugged, casual look still firmly in place. "He doesn't seem the artist type, that's all. I'd hate to ruin all those suits with turpentine."

The mental communication was filled with golden warmth and the image of Tom tugging one of Lestat's business shirts off so hard the buttons popped. Oh yes, I'd imagine you'd truly hate that. Tell me, Mr. Cruise, are you always this stubborn about getting what you want?

He didn't hesitate. "Always." Then he smiled. "I think you've made the right choice."

Purple-blue eyes locked onto Tom's. Lestat's voice was a French purr. "I agree."

He tilted his head up. "I've got another idea. If you'd like to hear it. Sort of a surprise, really."

"What?"

"A relocation."

Lestat frowned. "What kind?"

He shrugged modestly. "Just a suggestion. I happened by a place, and I thought of you."

The frown turned into a slight smile. "Really?"

"Really. I haven't signed any papers or anything, but I did tour through it. I really think you can make something of it."

Lestat took one look around him, then back at Tom. "Oui. Yes." Lestat's smile was blinding. "Show me."

Tom stood, then took his hand. "Come on."

The location, Tom could tell, surprised Lestat. That was good, in his opinion. Anything that surprised him couldn't have been thought of by "Greg". Still, Tom didn't know if he'd buy this play or not. The house wasn't a house at all, but a sprawling warehouse near the river. The advantages were obvious - the amount of space available for art and other activities bordered on awe inspiring. Privacy was assured due to the size of the lot. Now it was up to Lestat.

Lestat walked through, arms folded, his footsteps echoing through the building as he looked around. "It's a little sparse," he said with a slight smile.

"Which means we can do anything we like to it."

Lestat looked over his shoulder at him. "We?"

He tried to look affronted. "Did you think I was going to move out?"

Lestat shrugged. "I wasn't sure. I mean I can't imagine playing nursemaid to me is your idea of a long-term good time."

This time he didn't need to act. Surprised he asked "Nursemaid?"

"Oui," Lestat said, shrugging again. "Making sure I don't do anything stupid, working on Louis' businesses for me... I can't imagine how that would make you happy."

"I'm not babysitting, Lestat." His reply was slow, still friendly, but deliberate. "I'm helping a friend who needs it."

"You're content with this?" he asked, indicating all that was around them, the implication being his continued relationship with Lestat.

He nodded. "It'll take some work, of course. But the end results are worth it."

Lestat smiled, apparently satisfied with what Tom said. He resumed walking around, inspecting things more closely now. "We'll still need plumbing. I'm picturing the bathroom here -" With careful steps he paced out a square on the dusty floorboards.

"And a kitchen." He managed to look embarrassed. "For the sake of appearances."

Lestat considered this. "I suppose so, if we're to have company." He looked around then sketched out another, smaller square not far from the first one. "That should make plumbing installation easy." He looked up towards the large windows that surrounded them. "And a bedroom here - " his heel marked out a much larger space before he looked up at Tom with eyes that Tom could have sworn contained rainbows. "Do we need two?" the smile was intimate. "For the sake of appearances?"

His reply was slow, almost a drawl. "I... don't think so."

"Alright," Lestat said, walking towards him. He held one hand out to catch on Tom's waistband as he wrapped his arm around Tom's chest and stood behind him. "What else will we need then, mon amoureux?"

Tom kissed him. "A big bed."

Lestat's free hand crept upward and tangled in Tom's hair. "That, lover, was a given." His lips danced over Tom's as he spoke. "What else will you need?"

He tried to keep his thoughts straight. "An office. Grounded power for a computer."

Lestat's lips moved along Tom's jaw. "Office. Near the bedroom. Electricity, phone line. Oui. What else?"

It was harder than ever to think. "Music. Home theatre. The usual."

There was a light scrape of fangs behind Tom's ear. "Entertainment center, sun-proof blinds on the windows," there was another teasing nip, "big, comfortable couches.... what else do you want?"

"A waterfall, wine goddesses peeling grapes..."

"Now you're trying to make me jealous."

Tom kissed him. "Just wondering if you're paying attention."

He bit Tom's lower lip just enough to draw a drop of blood. He slowly licked it off with his tongue, then pulled away from the embrace. "You have my attention, Tom, I can assure you of that." He looked around again, nodding with satisfaction. "Oui, I like this. I can definitely do something with this."

"Great!" Tom grinned in real satisfaction. Take That Gregory, you horse's ass. "I'll sign on it tomorrow."

Lestat smiled at him. "It is what you need? There's enough privacy?"

"I'm fine, don't worry about me. After all, I found it, right?"

"True," Lestat looked around, erasing some of his earlier marks and making others. He gestured towards the bulk of the warehouse, "I was thinking that could be work space. Plenty of ventilation from paint fumes. But we could keep this area - " he gestured "open. Living space, but part of the whole."

"I've got some drawings..." Tom stalled out, looking sheepish.

Lestat's curious surprise was almost childlike. "Really? Show me?"

"They're back at the house." He hesitated, then blurted, "I had an architect do some variations for me. But it's nothing permanent."

Lestat grinned. "I'm open to negotiations from interested parties." He rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. "I'll need a new identity for this. Not Lestat, not Greg. Any thoughts?"

Tom shook his head. "None. Why not just let it come? Be yourself for a while. The name... well, we'll deal with that if we start showing your work around. What do you say?

He considered this. "Alright." He grinned. "Although Adam Pierson has a nice ring to it."

"NO! I don't care how cute your toes are."

Lestat's eyebrows raised slowly. "Now I'm really jealous."

"Why?" He looked smug. "I do watch television. On occasion."

"Cute toes?"

"Never mind. Just a rumor, really. Want to go back to my place and see some drawings?"

Lestat grinned, looking more and more like himself with every moment. "I don't know. I'm tempted but my lover might get rather annoyed if I fell for such a cliched pickup line."

Tom leaned in to kiss him, a light teasing promise of more to come. "Nah."

"Well since you put it that way," Lestat purred, returning the kiss. "I suppose I could allow myself to be tempted."

Fin