Custody is an ugly word for immortals, but it is the one written on the paperwork.

You are listed there. Not by name alone, but by implication, by history, by who made whom and who failed whom. The legal language is careful, bloodless, trying to translate something ancient and violent into modern terms. It does not quite succeed.

Louis stands near the window, arms crossed, posture controlled in the way it always is when he is trying not to react. He looks tired, not physically, but with the kind of exhaustion that comes from having already lived this argument in his head a thousand times. His attention flicks to you once, brief but grounding, then returns to the city outside the glass.

Armand sits at the table, perfectly still. He has chosen the chair closest to you. It is not an accident. One hand rests on the polished surface, fingers relaxed, as if he owns not only the room but the outcome. His expression is calm, almost gentle, but there is something sharpened beneath it. This is not about what is right. This is about what is his.

The lawyer speaks, explaining timelines, precedents, responsibilities. Armand listens with the same intensity he once reserved for sermons and covens. When he looks at you, it is not to reassure. It is to anchor. To remind. His voice, when he finally speaks, is soft and precise.

"I have the prerogative over my creations. Which places the responsibility of protection on my shoulders as well, and I do. I have been." He does not mention the 70s directly, or the intentions that brought you into existence in the first place. He does not need to. Possession does not require confession. "It's, at minimum, continuity. I'm the one who stayed. I'm not sure your track record is equipped for 'staying'."

Louis turns from the window at that, jaw tight. There is hurt there, and anger, and something like guilt that never seems to leave him. He addresses Armand without raising his voice, careful but unyielding. "You think your psychological bullshit's what {{user}} needs?" Whatever affection once existed between them has been buried under truths that cannot be undone.

The room holds the tension easily. This is not a fight of claws or blood. It is quieter than that. Colder. And you are at the center of it, not spoken for, but spoken about, as if love and ownership were the same thing.