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Chapter Text

New Orleans in 1929. The streets were bustling, even though the sun had set a while ago. It was nighttime; the speakeasies and some more obvious bars had opened their doors to the public while jazz bands met up to play tunes to attract tips and customers. Gambling was becoming a problem that police couldn't keep up with, the stock market crash was nearing its fruition, and most of all, you were 21 and at your peak partying time. But you never truly understood the appeal of partying.

You were at a bar on a Friday night. It was starting to get cool outside as September was fast approaching, but inside the lounge, it was warm like New Orleans, unfortunately, often was. The humidity doubled tenfold, given the busy atmosphere of guests elbow to elbow dancing, laughing, and chatting. You weren't here to party, no. You were here to do something much more entertaining than a party.

'il bar di Antonio' aka "Anthony's bar." It was known for being...not the safest. Sure, it was fancy, and it seemed safe from the outside, but as soon as you would go inside, you'd be ordering a drink to drown out the obvious tension. After all, the Carollo family owned it, the New Orleans mafia. The big bad scary guys who nobody ought to mess with. It was hard to take them seriously when Anthony was at the bar trying to flirt with Hajek again. You'd seen it time and time again and wondered how he was still supposed to be a feared man. He dressed in pink suits, for Lucifer's sake!

Nonetheless, this was a local hotspot. It was out there despite prohibition being in full force. The police were either too scared to touch on it or came themselves after a long day of work.

You could hear whispers amongst the crowds.  'The Smiley Killer'  and  'The Iron Lung Killer'. New Orleans plague. Who are they? The music was loud, but not as loud as the underlying sense of fear. Anyone could be the next victim of a brutal murder.

"Ah, no thanks."

The bar was crowded to the brim, strident and rowdy. You were sitting at the bar, peacefully drinking your margarita, a little tipsy and enjoying the jazz music until some random guy with a beer belly and horrendous body odor came up to you, hoping to take you home. He had even taken your hand in his own slimy ones, placing a wet kiss on your knuckles. It made you nearly gag.

"Why not?" He pouted. But it wasn't even cute. He was closer and louder than he needed to be, breath fanning against your face. He reeked of money spent on cheap liquor instead of toothpaste. His teeth were more yellow than a banana, which was such an odd comparison, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

"I have a boyfriend." You lied, leaning away from him enough for the edge of the counter to dig into your back while you nervously smiled. He has one more chance to walk away. You're already planning where, when, and how. You were simply giving him a chance to back out. You always did, dangling their freedom right in front of their eyes without them even noticing before they make the decision to end their own lives. You considered it ' uninformed suicide '.

"He doesn't have to know pumpkin ." His speech was slurred, grinning stupidly in a way that made his wrinkles more prominent. You couldn't help but imagine what face he would make while life slowly drained from his face. How he would beg for you to stop while you twisted and dug your knife further into his throat and watch the steady stream of blood spurt out and paint your hand and blade in delicious sin.

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, someone walked over and rudely interrupted your conversation.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice you were all up in this young lady's face?" It was some guy, tall, brunette, with amber eyes hidden behind glasses and grinning from ear to ear. You were caught a little off guard, not by his random intrusion, but by the look in his eyes. Danger. It made the hair on your arms stick up. You couldn't quite explain it. The underlying urge to get up and run simmered beneath the surface. You ignored it, clearing your throat.

"She—"

"I'm perfectly fine." You spoke, voice dripping with venom.  'I am perfectly fine at handling myself ,'  you thought. He stood there for a second, almost as if deciding his next move during a game of chess. Yet, the drunken man next to you didn't seem to notice the off-putting vibe of the man. No. Instead, he got up in his face in a pathetic attempt to intimidate him. You could only sigh, watching with an unamused expression.

"  Jealous ? Listen here, you bellhop looking—"

"It's okay." You interjected, resting a hand on the drunk guy's shoulder, smiling sweetly. "He's actually not bothering me at all." You insisted, giving his shoulder a small squeeze that made his smile widen exponentially in a way you didn't think possible. 

The man's brow twitched, but he still smiled, silent for a moment, searching for something in your expression before responding, "Of course," He simply said, "My apologies." He turned his heel, walking off without another word or gesture.

Weird  ..

"So, pumpkin pie~"

It wasn't far off where you led him into a secluded alleyway. It was dark, only a single street light peeking through the somewhat narrow spot in the street. The light flickered, gasoline and vomit mixing to create one of the most unholy scents imaginable. But this pig couldn't notice even that, following you like some lovesick puppy.

You tried to ignore his hands trailing down your lower back as you pushed him against a wall forcefully; your heart began to race as you looked around to make sure you were really alone. Not a single soul in sight. You couldn't hear anything but the heavy breathing of the man in front of you, who looked rather bashful now, a faint blush coloring his sagging cheeks.

"Oh my! You like it freakyyyy~?" He simpered. He couldn't even catch on to your scoff as you slid your hand under your skirt and gripped the handle of the blade in your garter.

You didn't hesitate—you usually did—to bathe in their last moments of life, to see just how unknowing they were. They expected to wake up tomorrow, go to work, see their friends again, kiss their wives, and take their kids to school in the morning, continuing on with their dull, meaningless lives.

No. No waiting. Those hands and his inability to keep his mouth shut were getting on your nerves.

His scream quickly turned into gargled noises as you dug your blade into his throat, cutting right through his vocal cords. His hands grabbed at your own, trying to pull the knife out of his neck, but he was weak. He didn't even cough; he couldn't. Blood trickled down his chin and neck while his once hazel eyes dampened and quickly became discolored. The saggy skin on his face only seemed to sag more, giving the visual illusion that he was melting right before your eyes.

"How does it feel?" You asked as his final moments washed over him. "To have your voice taken away from you. To be silenced ." You twisted the blade, resulting in tears flowing freely from his eyes and choked sobs escaping his bleeding lips. But the cries had gotten weaker, and the tears began to slow before his hands fell, and just like that, he slumped against your blade, lifeless.

Your lips curled into a small frown as you watched him die so quickly. You hoped to have more fun with him, but you should have known he was weak by the way he acted. He looked fairly sentimental. He probably had a wife and kids at home who would wake up and wonder where he was in the morning, only to see it on the news. You doubt the wife will miss him for obvious reasons. Who can miss a cheating bastard, after all?

You almost felt bad for his wife and kids at home.  Almost.

This was a stress kill. Something to bring your adrenaline to its peak, distract you from the stress and also keep the blade away from your own throat. You're starting a new job tomorrow at a newspaper firm, and you are anything but excited. Hell, you haven't worked in months, struggling to find a job, living off stolen wallets from your victims. It was barely enough because people don't usually bring big bucks when going out to bars. If it wasn't for your last job in the Carollo family ending shortly after some biznitch named  Susan started a rumor that you were embezzling funds. Anthony was oh-so kind to let you live. At least that's what he said.

You looked up at the night sky, inhaling and exhaling some of the adrenaline coursing through your body.

The moon was your audience as it shimmered, hidden behind a thin sheet of clouds. You wondered if it was entertained by you, or if it was the judge. If it's the judge, would that make the sea of stars the jury? If so, you were surely guilty. The evidence was stacked against you, and you had no alibis.

You weren't clean; you left the body at the scene of every single kill. You didn't care enough to dispose of it; they weren't worthy of your time like that. So you walked back home as it began to rain again, leaving you soaking wet when you arrived at your flat. You could only curse yourself for staining the carpets in blood; you would have to spend hours trying to scrub them off. This was the not-so-glamorous side of killing. The cleanup and nasty red stains left behind. Or the throwing up afterwards that was quite unavoidable at times.

No, you weren't looking for love—at least not actively seeking it out. In fact, you had decided you were most likely incapable of feeling it. A person who kills cannot love. Despite your justifiable reasons for taking another life, the mere prospect of falling in love when you can so easily take any life, meaningless or not and justified or not–makes you a monster. An irredeemable monster that is either unlovable, incapable of feeling love, or both.

But.

You wouldn't mind coming home to have someone. For them to hold you in their arms while they padded away blood from your face with a damp cloth and hummed a familiar tune. Or even going out with them to claim some deserving victims. You pushed down the warm feelings that arose in your stomach at the thought.

Whatever. Right?

All you need is yourself. As an independent woman, you don't need a man; you don't want a man. The last thing you needed was becoming or being seen as a woman reliant on a man for income, housing, and well-being. It was unfortunate, but you can't help being born into a society that treats you differently because you were born a woman. But the killing wasn't a way of earning respect from others; it was a way of respecting yourself, a reminder of your values, and a stress reliever. You could justify it in more ways than one.

After spending an hour washing off the blood on your blouse and skirt, you retired to your room for the day. Tomorrow. Tomorrow... Ugh ...

Chapter Text

Alastor wasn't all too fond of bars or the nightlife.

In fact, he had somewhat of a  disdain  for them.

He didn't get drunk; he found it childish, and he never wanted to take anyone home—he was better than that.

Socialization was  pointless . He didn't enjoy talking to people who didn't offer any mystery, and he found that almost all the people on this putrid earth were surface-level animals that lacked any level of importance or significance—at least not enough for him to bother wasting time on. 

Hypocritical, he knew. He wasn't exactly important either. But he wasn't unimportant. Most people didn't have detached limbs in their fridge, and most didn't have a room dedicated to a variety of knives, chains, and tarps. Most couldn't smile like Alastor did, either. He was good at pretending to care about what you had to say, and on the rare occasion he did care, he quickly grew bored.

'Patient, polite, and gentlemanly.' that was Alastor. Many considered him a friend, some even family. But his only real friend was Rosie. The one person he trusted with his secret. But that isn't important. Not right now. 

Alastor was at a bar despite hating them.

Why ?

Well, his favorite Jazz band just so happened to be playing—already enough to make him entertain the idea of going. And then Mimzy was pushing him to go so she could have a dance partner.

So, long story short, here he was, 1 hour into the 3-hour long concert and standing idly by the women's restroom while Mimzy threw up in the toilet, drunk. He offered to hold her hair back for her, but she insisted she could handle it herself, leaving him alone.

He already wanted to go home.

It was too crowded for his liking, and things weren't looking good ever since Anthony Carollo—infamous mob boss who was already striking fear into citizens right now—strutted in with 3 men in black suits behind him. Which, go figure, it's his bar. Literally has it in the name. He had a nasty look in his eyes.

However the atmosphere didn't die down strangely enough, and if it did, it was only for a second. 

"Mimzy!" Alastor yelled into the bathroom. 

"Wha—eughhh!"

Gross .

"Are you almost done?"

"How am I supposed to know! I had 5 martinis straight!" 

Alastor groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose before fixing his glasses. He was her ride, and she was drunk, so he didn't even think of just leaving her there.

He looked around the bar again, eyes scanning the room which was full of people dancing, stumbling over drunk, and flirting with each other while some mild verbal arguments broke out here and there.

And then he saw you. Sitting on a stool by the bar, unamused, while some much bigger guy, obviously drunk, towered over you intimidatingly.

It wasn't that alone that interested him.

It was the outline of a dagger on your thigh through your tight pencil skirt and your expression. You didn't look nervous or upset. You were smiling nervously, and he wasn't sure if it was because you were lost in your thoughts and pretending to listen or if it was on purpose—to act vulnerable, hook, line and sinker.

Beguiling . 

Alastor found himself walking over without something to say. His legs just kind of.. .moved . So he made a fool of himself when he finally got there.

"Excuse me, I couldn't help but notice you were all up in this young lady's face?" He inquired, cocking his head to the side. You were eyeing him up and down with a nasty look that made him excited.

"She—"

"I'm perfectly fine" Is what you said, your voice cold.

That's when it clicked. He wasn't coming here to make conversation and get this disgusting pig away from her; he was only succeeding in botching her plans to beat the shit out of this guy or even  murder him.

"Jealous?" The drunk was now in Alastors face, breath tickling his face, making him physically take a step away, face scrunched at the rotten smell of his breath. "Listen here, you bellhop—"

"It's okay." You had interrupted. Alastors eyes twinkled in amusement at your act. It was good enough to fool a sober man. "He's actually not bothering me at all." You finished.

Tragic . Alastor accepted defeat.

"Of course." Alastor smiled, "My apologies." He simply said, walking off.

10 minutes later, when Mimzy finally stumbled out of the bathroom, Alastor was  finally  able to get out of the bar.

While helping her to his car, he saw you walking off with that man into an alleyway. He wanted to follow, to confirm his suspicions. He almost did, but Mimzy was complaining about nausea, and he didn't want to leave her in his car for an extended period.

Oh well.

Disappointed, Alastor drove her home and then went to his house for the night. Tomorrow, he had a meeting with Vox, and he felt he was going to get bugged about signing a contract for an affiliation. 

Maybe, like in those cheap books, he'd run into her again. He laughed to himself at the mere thought. He'd forget about her.

( Spoiler alert, he didn't )

Chapter Text

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Chapter Text

The building itself was small, and as soon as you went inside, you were hit with chaos .

People were racing back and forth between desks in a frenzy, newspapers and folders in their hands, while others sat, viciously typing away on cheap and half-broken typewriters. Every single one of the dozen or so printers was occupied as they printed out newspapers.

'One body and parts of another were found, both near the Central Bar. Iron Lung and Smiley killer working together? ' on the front of all of them. 

You tiptoed in, careful not to step in the various ink spills that stained the ugly yellow carpet. Your hands were holding your purse closely to your chest as you shyly stepped over to what you assumed was the front desk, where a lady who looked just as frazzled as the others sat. Her eyes bulge out of their sockets, either from hyperthyroidism or from a large amount of coffee intake.

"I'm assuming you're..?" She inquired, and you nodded. She smiled, getting up from her desk, offering a hand to you, and you shook it. It's sweaty. " Welcome! Since it's your first day, please go upstairs to speak with Mr. Vox!" She pointed to a narrow case of stairs. " The first door to the left, please! Just knock first!"

"Thank you."

You walked up the stairs. The second floor seemed like a whole new building. Plants adorned the marble-tiled floor and fancy paintings that looked like they cost more than you hung up on the royal blue walls.

First door to the left.

You walked up to it, but before you could even knock, you heard the commotion, and your nosy ass couldn't help but listen as you pressed your ear against the door.

"You do understand what you're missing out on, right?"

"You know I'm not interested."

"But—"

"I'll be taking my leave. The cafe down the street has lovely coffee, and I wouldn't want to miss it before closing time."

" Just wait —!"

"Sorry, I'm not interested." The door opened, and you stumbled back, hands behind your back, smiling nervously—until you saw who it was.

That tall brunette from yesterday was dressed in a similar red tie and vest with a stupid smile plastered over his face. 

"You.." You muttered.

"Ah, so we meet again." He dusted off his suit and left through the door. You could see a disappointed Vox, still focused on the man leaving. " Did you really go home with that...thing, or did you sober up?" His voice was sarcastic and mocking. His gaze focused on his cufflinks as he fixed them and checked his watch.

"Excuse you?" You retorted. Should you be mad? It's hard to tell if he's complimenting you and saying you're better than that or calling you stupid . 

He simply shot you a lopsided grin that only raised more questions as to what his intentions were. " You have fire to you. Entertaining." He mused, mostly to himself.

Vox was outside the room now, witnessing your conversation with a look of confusion and anger.

"Okay, what the fuck?" Vox had a brow raised, long streaks of black hair falling in front of his face. He looked disheveled.

"Don't use such vulgar language." The man chided, patting Vox's shoulder in a belittling gesture, which only made him more mad. "It's not very professional."

"Professional my ass!" Vox hissed. This was your new boss? You knew he was stuck up, but not this stuck up. "You're just some low-life radio host!"

The other chuckled in response, "And yet you wanted me to join this thing you call a business?" He shrugged, averting his attention back to you. " You intrigue me, " he said.

You blinked a couple times, noticing he was holding a hand out for a handshake. You obliged. Now your hands were sweaty.

"My name is Alastor , a pleasure to meet you." He grinned. 

You replied with your name, not really sure why you were exchanging formalities with your new bosses, seemingly now enemies in front of him. But, in reality, he also seemed to draw you closer with that dangerous glint in his eyes. He tried to hide it, and you don't think others saw it; most couldn't look behind a deceiving smile.

"Well!" Alastor said, retracting his hand from yours. "I'm sure you're dying to get to work here for a couple pennies an hour!" He laughed at his own joke. It was loud and almost robotic, but it was genuine. He pulled out a small business card from his breast pocket, handing it to you. " I pay better." He fucking winked before walking off confidently, body brushing against yours a little too much as he left.

He's...Weird. But not necessarily in a bad way.

Vox was fuming as he snatched the business card from your hand, ripping it to pieces and shoving it in his pocket.

"Don't mind him. He's   delusional." He sighed, gesturing you into his office. You kept your mouth shut because if you talked, you'd get fired on your first day. You had no idea what job this 'Alastor' guy was offering or if he even actually paid well.

You walked into the office, taking a seat in front of the desk. It was a rather fancy office like the rest of the upstairs with a nameplate on his wooden desk: " Vincent Vox.'

"So!" He seemed to switch up as soon as he sat down, a large smile on his face and voice suddenly more energetic as if trying to sell something. " I heard you've been looking for a job for a while?" You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, he continued. "  Well, if you can start today, you've got the job!"

" Today ?" You exclaimed. 

"Today." He parroted, still grinning from ear to ear, hands held up in a grand gesture.

"What's the pay?" you asked, raising a brow cautiously. You weren't stupid, albeit you'd be down for just about anything, yet his smile was clearly trying to deceive you, and it was…unsettling. he

"Oh, you !" He laughed, stopping when we weren't. I assure. " I assure you, we pay all of our employees well, and ras come often! Our starting pay is around $5.50 per week!" He mused, steepling his fingers together as he rested his chin on his knuckles, still owning that salesman grin.

"What are the hours?" He froze, coughing awkwardly. 

"Well—" Vox was interrupted when the same lady at the front desk from earlier opened the door, peeping her head in.

" Sir, Valentino -" 

"Don't you know to knock? Jesus, Katherine." He scorned her, shooing her away. She looked like she was about to cry as she mumbled an apology and shut the door.

You looked back at him, unable to hide the disgust that hit you, and he quickly noticed, becoming a little flustered as he waved at you dismissively.

"Ah, Katherine!   It's all jokes around here!" He reassured you. Your disgust only grew, hand tightening on your bag as you imagined them tightening around a blade as you sink it deeper into his- "So! Here is the form you'll need to sign before working here!" He placed a piece of paper and fountain pen in front of you, smile unwavering.

Abso-fucking-loutely not. You would rather live in a trash can than work for this absolute pig of a human being.

You stood up, shooting him a nasty glare. "I'd rather die, fuckwad." You sneered before turning and promptly leaving.

"Well, hey ! It's not like anywhere else will be willing to hire some woman-"

You slammed the door shut hard enough for it to leave a dent before walking downstairs, hands clenching on your purse as you fantasized about him begging for his life. The world would be a better place without him in it. With him in the deepest depths of hell, burning and suffering, but somehow, you figure that even in hell, he'd somehow manage to manipulate and control others.

When you got outside, you looked up and saw gray clouds beginning to form while reality finally hit you.

Fuck . You won't be able to pay rent, and your skeezy landlord doesn't accept late payments. 

You might actually end up homeless.

You sighed, trembling as a cool breeze swept past you. Your coat had holes in it as did your socks. Hell, it could barely be considered a coat, more so an embarrassing art project in middle school.

You dug your hands into the pockets of your coat for warm, flinching when you felt something in them. You pulled it out. A business card. Alastors. He must have snuck a second one in when he was passing by you to leave, expecting Vox's childish behavior.

It wasn't a landline; rather, it was an address to a wealthier part of town up north. Estburg. You'd never been there before, and it was only something you occasionally saw in the news as burglaries happened there ever so often, and more importantly, the discoveries of bodies. Lots of them. Or at least, parts of them, discarded and left behind only to be sniffed out by dogs and found by unsuspecting people. Otherwise, nothing was really notable about the snobbish and privileged town.

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The next day, you finally took the bus all the way up north to the address on the business card. The house itself was a garish two-story red and black Victorian manor. It stood out compared to the neighboring houses, which sported more greens, yellows, and whites.

You had your dagger on you, secured neatly in your garter just in case. Something needed to be more off-putting about him, and you weren't sure if it was something to be afraid of or interested in. But something drew you to him; you wanted to know...And you also really needed the money to pay for rent.

You rang the doorbell, waiting a few minutes. You were about to leave when the door creaked open. Chestnut brown eyes met yours through a crack in the door before he swung it open.

"Ah! Welcome!" He gestured for you to come in, and for whatever strange reason, you did, your hand resting cautiously near your thigh. " I do apologize, I was not expecting you."

"I wasn't sure how to give prior notice," you said, stopping in your tracks when you saw another figure sitting in the living room on a reclined chair, teacup in hand. She had long silver-white hair, but she didn't look old, and she wore a fascinator with a purple dress. She tilted her head, lips turning upwards as her eyes met yours.

" Oh, Al ! Who is this one?" She mused excitedly in a thick New York accent, getting up and running over to you, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear. She eyed you like dinner, and it sent shivers down your spine.

"A future business partner." He responded, standing idly while this strange woman continued to stare at you like you were some kind of animal at a zoo, fascinated.

" Business partner ?" She gasped, feigning shock. " You? Teamwork ?" She momentarily pulled a hand from your face, looking over to Alastor who had his hands behind his back, posture perfect and proper.

"Correct, why don't you introduce yourself?" He looked at you expectantly. You cleared your throat and introduced yourself to the lady in front of you, holding out a hand for a handshake, but she simply laughed.

"I'm Rosie, and darling... don't worry about formalities; I'm just a friend of old Al's, " she teased.

"I believe the saying goes 'old friend.'" Alastor corrected, but Rosie just shot him a grin and shook her head. You held back a snicker.

"Oh, always a little bit special." She grinned, picking up her coat from the coat hanger behind you before putting it on. " Well, I'll be heading my way now. Stop by if you want to sell anything." She said, giving Alastor a playful wink.

"Of course." He replied as she gave him a quick hug and waved to you before promptly leaving.

"Apologies for that." He led you to a couch in the living room, sitting you down before moving to the kitchen. " Do you like tea?"

"No," you shook your head. Only coffee." You hummed, taking in the expensive and fancy interior. " It's not like I want you to make me coffee; I was just saying, " you quickly added.

He quirked his brow up in amusement, his smile not waning one bit. "I'm not a fan either; I prefer coffee as well, " he said, spilling the remainder of the coffee in the kettle into the drain before starting to clean it. 

"So.. What's the job offer exactly?" You asked.

"Glad you asked!" He exclaimed, clasping his hands together as he made his way over to sit in front of you. " Can you talk?"

You raised a brow, "Well, I am now, aren't I?" 

He cocked his head to the side in entertainment. " I mean talk-talk. For 3 hours every day, 5-8pm5–8 pm "Yeah." You responded, realizing what he meant. Working on-air with him? " I can do that." You added. " But why me? Why not...Rosie, or someone else?"

He shook his head, laughing a bit." Rosie is lovely, but she isn't radio-material."

"And I am?" You smiled impishly, earning a laugh from him.

"Can you also write scripts?"

"I wrote a few in middle school. What's the pay?"

"We split half and half for the broadcasts you attend, so expect around $30-40 per." He grinned languidly, reclining in his chair before pulling his coffee mug to his lips to take a sip from it.

You nodded, mouth slightly agape in awe. Just two broadcasts could pay your monthly rent. "  I-Yes, that's great," you stammered. 

"You're hired."

You went quiet, stunned.

"Hired?"

He nodded, setting down his mug as he crossed his legs, hands grasping one another. " You start tomorrow. I expect you here Monday through Saturday from 4 to 7:15 to 7:15 pm bBringscripts for Fridays and Saturdays; I'm too busy to create scripts on those days. Oh, and come at 1 pm on Thursdays; scripts are written on those days."

You could only nod in response, your heart racing in excitement and your hands clammy and sweaty in anxiety. He got up, and you followed suit, following as he walked to the door. He was all smiles. He always was. You weren't sure how you felt or how you even should feel. The curvature of his lips was unnerving, and you couldn't help but feel like his words dripped with venom, but not the kind that you'd ever once seen. 

No .

Not like Vox . Alastor felt much more threatening. Despite his petite figure and lack of any muscles with no facial hair in sight, those eyes are daggers. Is he looking at you like this on purpose? Is he giving you a false sense that you're looking behind the curtain to give you an upper hand? 

"Pleasure seeing you." He hummed, grasping your hand to plant a quick kiss on it.

You left and your mind immediately flooded with thoughts.

Is he trying to intimidate you, use you, or is it much more surface level? 

Whatever it was, the pay was great, and now you were really craving crepes.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

When you got home, you were met by your landlord standing outside your apartment door. You had to physically hold back a gag at the smell of him. He was old, and you didn't think he'd taken a shower in years .

"Yes, Mr. Suconcock?" You were standing in front of him, forcing yourself to smile.

"You've been late on rent payments." He was tapping his foot on the floor impatiently. That was never a good sign. 

"Sorry? I haven't." 

"You didn't get the literal letter I left in your—anyways; usually, I let it pass for a couple weeks, but I've gotten word from someone specific that you have been engaging in..." He raised a brow, " nefarious activities ."

"Like what?" You questioned, and he sighed. 

"Don't act dumb ; it doesn't look good on you." He went silent for a bit, and you still looked at him curiously. What the fuck does he mean 'nefarious activities?'

"I'm Christian." He started... What ? " Born and raised." He added, looking up to… God? While tapping his fist on his chest.

You just stood there, unamused , feet in pain from all the walking you did in heels today. 

"And it's a sin to perform in those activities." He shrugged, obviously tiptoeing around the word.

"What is it?" You snapped, crossing your arms impatiently.

"You're a harlot ." He finally said, sighing. 

... Harlot?

"A harlot?! What the fuck—"

Next thing you knew, you were sitting outside the apartment building on the ground with one suitcase by your side, which barely fit your belongings in it. 

You snapped at him, and god forgives you because you slapped him after he said, 'You look like one.'

So now it was late. You've slept on the streets before, but you usually were able to couch surf when the days started getting colder, and the days were colder, and you had no couch to sleep on.

Sleeping at Alastor's was an option, especially since you feel like he'd gladly let you sleep on his couch, but he wasn't an option you'd pick. You could handle yourself. You'd promised since your last ex that you wouldn't rely on a man for your survival; you'd done it once before. Never, ever again. You'd convince yourself that you live in a society where every man you meet is looking for property, not love or friends.

And god damnit, you tried being a lesbian, but it's really hard when you can get imprisoned for it. You'd just decided to give up on love. 

It makes you weak anyway. Lowers your ability to think straight, fogging the mind. Decisions are no longer driven by yourself first; instead, they come first. It's too messy.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

Surprisingly, you actually got to sleep and only woke up when you heard the morning rush started: people talking, walking, cars racing by and honking their horns.

It was cool and it had rained a little bit when you slept, so you were damp. You looked at your watch.

12:29PM

Shit

You jumped up from your spot, scaring a few pedestrians, grabbed your suitcase and bolted to the bus stop. Luckily, it wasn't too far down the street. 

Your shoes splashed in puddles, only further ruining your nice heels and wetting your socks.

But that didn't matter because your bus was at the bus stop, and you were 20 feet away, waving it down to not leave.

Out of breath, you raced onto it, tossing a couple coins in the dispenser before moving to sit down. You caught your breath while people stared at you. It wasn't until now that you realized how disheveled and dirty you looked. 

Your hair was knotted and tousled, your lipstick and eyeshadow were smudged, and your dress had mud on it.

What a wonderful impression to make on your first day at work! Showing up like you slept at a barn with cows, without even an electric blanket. Just a typewriter. Though it would be cool to live with cows that knew how to use a typewriter— but that was beside the point!

You pulled a mirror from your bag, and a couple of clothes fell out in the process. But you didn't have the time to pick them up right now. You pulled the mirror up to your face, using your sleeve to wipe off the makeup on your face. Thankfully, because of the dampness of your sleeve, it was easy and doubled as a way to wash your face quickly.

You then ran your fingers through your hair, slowly and painfully undoing the knots. 

Some old lady was sitting in front of you on the bus, cane in hand, while she watched you, shaking her head and smiling as if she was reliving some fond memory.

Uh, okay.

You finally got to a point where you were.... presentable. Just as long as they didn't look at the lower part of your dress. You sighed, setting down the mirror and picking up the clothes you'd previously dropped.

"Date?" The old lady asked, a small smile forming on her wrinkly lips. You looked at her, silent for a second, with a brow raised as you involuntarily pictured that in your head.

"No." You simply said as the bus arrived at your stop.

She laughed like you were joking when you said no, waving as you got off the bus. You shook your head, sighing as you continued onward to his house—Alastors house.

Scripts...scripts..what do people write for scripts? For radio shows? Are they just like...shit, what do people write in radio scripts?!

You knocked on his door, standing awkwardly.

Alastor answered, "Welcome!" He exclaimed, gesturing you in. 

"Sorry, I'm late." You mumbled as you checked your watch.

"No problem..." He eyed you up and down curiously. " You look...spent." He was still smiling even as he insulted you. 

"Thanks." You replied with dry sarcasm.

"Come with me, I'll show you to your office." 

Office? Yours?

He led you upstairs to a room. It wasn't huge by any means, but it also wasn't small. Bookshelves hit the ceiling, stacked with various novels and forms of literature. It was somewhat of a storage room, with records and boxes scattered around the room, but it was also nice. There was a desk in the center of the room with a dusty typewriter and a black leather desk chair in front of it.

"Wow, this is..." You were at a loss for words as you walked into the room that was now your ' office.'

"—Where you'll be writing scripts? Correct!" He finished your sentence with a lazy grin slathered across his face. 

That wasn't what you were going to say, but oh well.

"What exactly should I write?" you asked, walking over to the desk. In front of the typewriter was a vase with water and a singular lily, a welcome note, and some snacks. Your cheeks warmed slightly at the kind gesture, and a small smile formed on your rosy cheeks. 

"Underneath the welcome note is the formula for scripts." He grinned, still standing at the doorway, eyes fixated on you. " Join me for coffee at 2, will you?" 

You looked up at him, a little surprised at the offer. You weren't used to such kindness. Was he...hitting on you?

"Sure." You simply replied, plopping down on the chair and feeling yourself sink into the cushions. It felt so nice to sit on something comfortable, and oh, the typewriter was so fancy. A newer model from Underwood , one of the fancier typewriter companies. It felt nice on your fingertips.

You picked up the welcome note. It was generic stuff—not really mushy, more so instructions about where the bathrooms were and, strangely enough, where not to go. ' Don't go into the basement.' It seemed a little threatening like the lines got thicker during that specific part.

Underneath the note, as promised, was the formula for scriptwriting. The material expected to be in there changes considering the day, like recipes for Fridays, stories on Saturdays, and news on Sundays. Expected to be 2,000+ words long and whatnot. It was all doable, and it made you wonder why this job wasn't already filled up long ago. 

You guessed that maybe he only recently figured he needed an extra hand, but why only now? Whatever. Good money for good work. Better than the pennies Vox was offering.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

When 2 rolled around, you were actually happy to finally give your hands a rest from typing. Apparently, expensive typewriters don't give you any less aches and cramps in your hands.

When you went downstairs, you saw Alastor sitting on the couch, one leg crossed over the other, reading a book. Two mugs, with steam rising from them, were on the coffee table.

You walked over and silently sat down, and it seemed that only then did he notice you—or at least decide to notice you. 

"How's it working for you?" He asked, a smirk playing on his lips. His question seemed more rhetorical as he observed you massaging your cramped hands.

"Great." You replied, only adding more when you noticed his stare. " Thanks for the, uh, welcome packet and stuff." You looked up at him.

"Of course," He hummed, bringing the mug to his lips to take a sip. You did the same, trying to ignore the hot coffee hitting your lips. How was he drinking this so nonchalantly?

" Bitter ." You said, biting back a wince as the hot liquid traveled down your throat. 

"You don't like it?" He was still grinning, but now it seemed more playful. You didn't hesitate to shake your head.

"No, I like it bitter, " you replied, taking another sip despite the scorching temperature. It was really good and tasted fresh compared to the stuff you get at cafes. " Thank you, " you added. Alastor was still reading his book, but a part of you felt like he was only pretending to.

"Something tells me that you and I aren't all that different." His voice was low. You looked at him, unsure of what he was suggesting.

"Really now?" You smirked, amused. You assumed he was making small talk. But you couldn't help but think there was something underneath those words.

"Say, did you go home with that man?" He questioned, eyes still on his book. You cleared your throat, trying to string together a sentence that saved your dignity while also not saying that you literally murdered him.

"I was just being nice." You responded, your smile quickly becoming strained as you tried to keep it—not wanting to be suspicious.

"Oh, but you left with him, didn't you?" Alastor pried, eyes finally peeling from his book to meet yours. He wasn't smiling right now, but he wasn't unhappy either. His expression was monotonous .

Your heart skipped a beat, but you took a deep breath, calming your nerves, still smiling.

"He was drunk . I walked him home." 

Alastor smiled again. " How kind of you." He seemed completely unconvinced as he continued to read. Your brow twitched as you huffed. 

" You wanted to know ." You mumbled.

"Pardon?" He looked back up from his book, this time grabbing a bookmark and closing his book. You refused to be intimidated by him, even as he looked at you the way he did.

"You asked, and I told you. I walked him home." You didn't necessarily snap, but your voice was sharp and daring as you took another sip from your mug. Alastor seemed amused by your response, eyes widening in fascination.

"Ah, I like you." He commented, getting up as he walked to the kitchen with his mug. It only made you more pissed at how he treated you like some kind of object of entertainment, but you relented.

You bit back an insult. You knew better. You weren't dumb, and you wouldn't give in to the obvious bait he left for you. No. You were winning this game.

And just when you thought the conversation was over, he spoke...again.

"Your dress."

"I know, it's dirty." You said, "I just..." You tried to think of an excuse, but you fumbled, and he fucking grinned at you in amusement.

"Do you want to borrow some clothes?"

Yeah, like hell, you'd fit into his skinny-ass, 6'5, slim Jim clothes.

"Borrow?" You repeated, looking at him and mostly just wondering how you'd fit into anything he owns.

"Yeah." 

Well, turns out you can fit into his clothes.

He gave you a white button-up and black pants that were extremely tight around your thighs. You had never even worn pants outside of your room, and you had some weird idea that Alastor would be like, ' No pants, it's not feminine!' But he wasn't, and he actually complimented you when you came out of the bathroom. 

"Right, well, I'll be getting back to my own matters. Continue the script, will you?" He asked rhetorically.

And that was basically how the rest of the day went. You were in your small office while he was off somewhere else in the house doing whatever. 

You'd finished the final draft of the script within a couple of hours, so you were left sitting around, looking through books. There were lots of books on cooking and preparing meat; he must be a really good cook.

There were also souvenirs from Mardi Gras and the occasional jazz albums. You were looking around when you came across a photo framed and nearly placed on a shelf.

Aw

It was what you assumed to be a young Alastor standing behind him, that seemed to be his mom. His mom seemed gentle, she had a soft smile plastered across her face, and Alastor looked energetic and almost like he was laughing when the photo was taken. You couldn't help but smile at it a little bit. So, he is somewhat human...

'DING DING DING'

You jumped as you saw the timer go off, indicating the day was over. You set the frame down, stumbling over to turn off the timer and grab your things.

"See you tomorrow, " he would say, waving goodbye. This time, you didn't get the creeps when he smiled at you and even smiled back at him as you waved. 

Tomorrow, you'd be actually on the radio with him. Of course, you wrote a script, but you'd still never even listened to one of his radios, so you weren't sure if it fit the criteria. You always needed more money to afford one, and also just preferred to read. So you wondered what it would be like to be " on air "...and also to have to talk to Alastor for an extended period because, in truth, you two still hadn't talked much.

You eventually found a spot underneath a bus stop and laid down on the bench, eventually drifting off to sleep.

Chapter Text

You were pretty sure Alastor noticed it today when you came in; the outfit you had only borrowed just yesterday was already muddy and wet from the rain.

But you didn't really have much of a choice; you looked through your bag of belongings, and it was all torn apart rags that made you prefer to just show up naked than in them.

So here you were, standing in front of his door, feeling like prey as he eyed you up and down with a look of...not necessarily disappointment per se, but something damn near it.

"Did you sleep in a  barn  ?" He asked. He was grinning stupidly as he invited you in.

"No, " you replied, stepping into his house and rubbing your shoes on the mat, getting the dirt off them. I just have a...complex housing situation." You weren't exactly sure how to word it. You didn't want to say 'I'm homeless'; it made you seem almost–if not definitely–weak.

He fucking laughed, and you looked at him. It was confusing because you didn't necessarily like Alastor; he was annoying, and he downgraded you to what seemed to be a mere object of fascination. Something to look and marvel at. He checked all the boxes to be your next victim.

But…

You never had a fleeting thought about killing him. You didn't want to, and that only made you even more irritated.

"So you're homeless?"

Your brow twitched as you fought out a "Yes." 

"Well," He started, leaning against the wall, "I have a spare room."

"No." You were quick to reply. "I can handle myself." You'd be damned if you accepted his help.

"Just for the time being!" he continued, following you while you set your stuff down on the coffee table in the middle of the living room, two sofas on either side. "Free of charge." He observed, continuing, "And it will save you on bus costs."

"Why do you want me here so bad?" You asked, studying his face. You couldn't read anything on it. He was a blank page.

"Well, I need help around the house, " he said, hands placed behind his back, smiling wide. 

"Like what?" 

"Like laundry, cleaning, y'know. I'm busy; I need help sometimes." 

"So…a  housemaid  ?" 

"In exchange for you living here, rent-free!"

You considered it. It is you handle yourself, just in a little bit of a roundabout way. It didn't take long for you to reply,

"Fine." You tried to appear reluctant, but he took it as an ecstatic 'yes!'

"Wonderful, wonderful!" He grinned, hands on your shoulder. "Your room is right over there!" He pointed to it but didn't bother showing you inside. "We go live in 2 hours." You looked at your watch, realizing you got there 3 hours early, getting a little flustered. 

"Right. Sorry, I didn't mean to come early—"

"No, no! Apologies are not necessary." He leaned in close to your ear, sending a chill down your spine. "Unless you insist~" He whispered, leaning back before you could even react. "Why don't we chat for a bit?" 

You looked at him, already exhausted by his mere existence in your proximity. "About what?" He gestured for you to sit on the couch, which you did, sitting on the fancy sofa while he took a seat in the same recliner he'd sat in yesterday.

"Anything! Were you born here? Do you have any family?" He looked like an overly energetic and a little bit creepy therapist, one leg crossed over the other as he surveyed you.

"Well,  I mean  ..." You thought for a second. 

You never really talked about your past. Mostly because people didn't really ask. In New Orleans, everyone kind of assumed you came from poverty and rags, especially as the economy was slowly going into shambles.

"I came from...uh..." You struggled to put it nicely. "Humble upbringings." You thought that was enough, but he continued staring at you intently, so you continued. "My dad wasn't really there, so my mom raised me and my siblings." You spoke, words a little quieter as memories you hadn't accessed in a while flooded your mind—some sad, some happy. 

It was weird because Alastor could tell. He saw behind your small smile and nodded. You noticed his smile faltered a little bit, but not in any form of boredom or disinterest in the conversation, more in just like...

Understanding .

It felt nice to feel listened to and heard and amazing to be understood.

"What about you?" You asked, and Alastor seemed a little surprised that you asked about him.

"Similarly." That was all he said. It felt like he was inviting you to not listen to what he said but read his eyes. To attempt to decipher the words etched into his expression. 

You tried, but you didn't speak that language. 

"Is your mom still around?" You asked, regretting it when you saw him lose interest in the conversation right as you asked. You hit a sore spot, and given that short millisecond of sadness in his eyes before he covered it up. 

"Coffee? I need some!" He got up, face quickly replaced by that ear-to-ear grin. You couldn't help but get the idea that it was more fake than you'd previously thought.

"Sure," You muttered, lost in thought. 

For the next two hours, Alastor talked about Fyodor Dostoyevsky and how phenomenal the book Crime and Punishment was. It was strange; he spoke like he was closely related to the main character, going on and on about the extraordinary portrayal of the human psyche and nihilistic viewpoint. You remember reading it in high school, though you couldn't remember more than a few specifics.

"It's quite fascinating." He started, grabbing your attention. "The novel was ahead of its time. The story Dostoyevsky presented." 

"It was quite nihilistic and raw, even for that period." You added. 

"The harassment and ridicule against those less fortunate. It makes you feel bad for a cold-blooded killer". Alastor laughed a bit.

"An alien to human society." You said, mostly to yourself.

"Are you?"

"Am I what?"

"An alien to society"

You laughed at his question until realizing he was waiting for an answer. You thought for a second.

"Probably."

And then, somehow, the conversation switched to plants, and only then did you seem to realize the number of plants around the house. Spider plants hung from the wall, cacti sat by the windows, and other unknown plants kept the place smelling rather fresh.

"I mean, look at Callie the Cactus? Isn't she flowering wonderfully?" Alastor said, picking up a cactus that sat on the coffee table in between you two.

Callie the Cactus…?

It made you smile how he spoke of his plants like they were his own children, energetic and speaking quickly. But that was probably because of the 2 cups of coffee he downed within 1 hour. How does he do that? You would have a heart attack and die.

"Well! Looks like it's time to air!" He said, getting up from his seat. 

Okay, you might just have a heart attack and die.

You felt a little nervous as you stood up, too. Yeah, you can talk for hours on end, but you never said you were good at it. Alastor just shot you one of his charming smiles before leading you upstairs into the room.

It was actually very spacious. There was one desk with two chairs and a control panel. Only a couple plants were around the entire place. 

The carpets were a deep red, and overall, the furniture looked very rich, if that makes sense. It was dark wood, smoothly sanded down, and fancy. You could tell his favorite color was red—red globes, red paintings, red everything.

You sat down on one of the chairs, spinning around to the desk full of machinery you don't think you've ever seen before. It was intimidating.

"Alright!~" Alastor sat down beside you, hands hovering over the controls, his usual smile tugging the corners of his lips as he looked at you. "This is the central control box. Here to tune in and start broadcasts!" You were already confused. There were at least a dozen levers, buttons, and other things you didn't even know what to call. He seemed to notice your confusion, adding. "You'll get the hang of it."

"Right." You muttered, still a little overwhelmed, watching him press a couple buttons and turn some nobs. "Ready?" He asked. 

Ready? No! You were sweating, hands gripping your pants tightly. You were tense. You swallowed thickly.

"Yup." 

And just like that, he got even more energetic.

"Testing, testing, welcome to Alastor's Red Crow Show !! Tuning in here today, every day at 5pm!" He spoke quickly, not taking a second to breath. "Now, it's Saturday, so you know what day it is! Forget love; Jazz is in the air!" 

You watched in reasonable awe. He hadn't even looked at the script yet, and he was already on a roll, the mic held up close to his face.

"Now, fellow Crows, we have a very special guest joining us today, tomorrow, and all upcoming weekends! Meet...." He gave a dramatic drumroll. Though you weren't sure who would be at home and on the edge of their seats to learn who was joining Alastor. He finally said your name, looking to you to speak.

"Hey! It's me." You spoke into the mic. It went silent for a second until he realized you weren't talking.

"Say, friend! What hobbies do you have?" 

"Oh, I like drawing and dancing." You forced a smile even though you weren't on screen.

"Dancing! Well, that is what I expect my viewers to be doing tonight as we listen to some of our current popular jazz hits!" 

Smooth transition,  you thought to yourself.

"Here's a personal favorite of mine, 'Let's Misbehave' by Cole Porter." He spoke into the mic with a grin.

Alastor pressed a couple buttons on the control panel and slid a record into the turntable, placing the needle on it, and soon the song started.  

You relaxed a little bit as it started to play, nodding your head to the tune and bouncing your leg in sync with the rhythm.

"Like this one?" He inquired, noticing your appreciation.

"Not bad." You'd smile softly, reclining in your chair as the music played. "I prefer Bessie Smith." 

"Really now?" He inquired, his smile only growing larger. "I can't deny that her music is better."

You'd look at him, surprised. He's the only person you've ever met who actually appreciates Bessie Smith. Your surprise only grew when he held out a hand to you, getting up from his chair.

"Dance with me?" He asked, hand folded neatly behind his back while the other remained extended to you. You took it and got up.

"I'll warn you, I'm pretty good." You grinned as he spun you closer, eyes meeting his with a competitive twinkle in them.

"Prove it." He challenged, and you took him up on it, pulling him closer, hands in his.

You hadn't swung in a while, but you still had it. 

Rock step, triple step, triple step...

You were quick, but he was too, and you quickly got into a rhythm, the room seeming to spin around you two as you danced around. You had your eyes on your feet, making sure you didn't misstep, laughing every time you nearly did.

"They say the spring means just one thing~" Alastor sang with exaggeration, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. 

"Too little love birds~!" You sang along, a large smile on your face as you tried to keep up with the dance. His feet were quick, and you could tell he was trying to get you to accidentally mess up, clearly testing your previous claim to be good multiple times. You almost did, but you were also quick. If growing up learning swing taught you anything, it was to be quicker than your partner. Sure, most don't consider it to be a competition, but what's the fun in no competition?

Eventually, the song slowed down as it neared the end. Alastor dipped you low to the ground, his face inches from yours with that all-knowing smirk on it. He was trying to get a reaction out of you, and it worked.

"Let's  misbehave~  "He sang as the song faded out. Your heart raced as he looked into your eyes for a couple seconds after that song ended as if searching for something. What was he looking for? He nearly squinted, like someone trying to read a book without their glasses.

"  Alastor  ?" You mumbled. Your cheeks were warm, even as he pulled you back up and took a step back, pressing a kiss on your knuckles while bowing. You laughed at the unnecessary use of manners.

"Thank you for the dance," He said, adding your name with a little bit of flair. He was being playful, and yet your heart raced. Why was it racing? It felt all mushy and moldable, even though you couldn't help but suspect he wanted it on a platter.

"You're quite fast." You commented as you both sat back down.

"Oh  darling , in more ways than one." He hummed as he flicked a couple switches to go back on air. You thought about what he meant for a second until it hit you.

"Wait , what  —"

"Welcome back, my fellow Crows! And now, let's hear some horror stories sent in by viewers!"

The rest of the night flew by, and before you knew it, you fell asleep while he told stories to his viewers. There was something so soothing about his voice—it was made for radio. Even while he told stories about stalkers and clown snakes(?), it was an overly calm atmosphere.

When you woke up, it was the middle of the night, and you had a blanket wrapped around you. The studio had one lamp in the corner, partly illuminating the room, and a note was placed neatly on the desk in front of you. You unraveled yourself from the blanket, reading the note.

'Feel free to go to your room downstairs! (:'

Smiling...even in notes. You yawned, getting up and dragging the blanket along with you downstairs to your room, quietly closing the door and promptly falling onto the bed in exhaustion.

This was possibly the most comfortable bed you've ever slept in.

When you woke up, it was sunny outside and you could hear Alastor in the kitchen cooking what smelled like eggs. You felt tired enough to go back to sleep, enjoying the sounds of birds chirping and—ah, he was humming too. You sat up and left your room, the blanket still wrapped around your shoulders as you sat on the couch in the living room. He was in front of the stovetop, nodding his head as he sang. The radio was on, but nothing was playing, leaving a soft undercurrent of static that was therapeutic.

You shifted to a more comfortable spot on the couch, causing him to hear you and look over. 

"Good morning~!" He smiled widely, a little wider than usual, as he turned off the stovetop and scraped the eggs onto a plate. 

"Morning." You mumbled, watching with tired eyes as he set down a dish of eggs on the coffee table in front of you. You shot him a confused look, and he didn't waste time explaining himself.

"You look  famished ! Eat!"

You looked down, unable to ignore how good those scrambled eggs smelled. You haven't really eaten these past few days, unable to afford food.

"Why aren't you eating?" You asked.

"I already ate this morning!" You tried to ignore the sinister look in his eyes as he said that.

"Thanks, " you mumbled, grabbing the plate and a fork to eat. You had honestly never tasted eggs that were seasoned and cooked so perfectly, and you were surprised he could cook. Most men can't cook; they leave it to their wives or maids to do it or just go to diners.

"Do you like it?" He asked, cocking his head to the side as he observed you.

"It's really good." You spoke, mouth full of the deliciousness that could be considered heaven on a plate.

He grinned, and then he grabbed the napkin he'd set beside your plate and fucking padded your cheek with it, wiping off crumbs. You quirked a brow upwards, looking at him. He was playful and obviously hoping to garner a reaction from you.

"  Lovely~  !" he said, turning to the stairs. "I'll be up to work! You still clock in at the same time!" He smiled and walked off when you nodded.

Was your heart racing from the feeling of being taken care of by someone...or was it from fear?

Both .

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

It was only when you grabbed the scripts and went into the broadcasting room that Alastor stopped by. His smile was strained, and he seemed irritated. He had a coat and scarf on as if ready to leave.

"Apologies, my dear, but I have some urgent matters to attend to." He handed you a stack of papers. Here are the instructions on how to broadcast. I don't doubt you can't do it without me."

You forced out a laugh, but he didn't laugh back.

"You—it's my third fucking day!" You complained.

"Yes, and you're a smart woman. I'm sure you can handle it; just don't cuss like that, darling." He walked out of the office and down the stairs.

"Uhhh, I can not!" You said, tossing the papers on the table before following him downstairs. "Maybe if you gave me prior notice, I could study how to and read the damn book you gave me!" You couldn't help the malice in your voice. You were fucking pissed, fists clenched, even though you had no intent to use them....probably.

"It's not rocket science." He was visibly trying to keep his cool and seem playful but failed miserably. "Again, you're  smart ! Just smile and follow the script!"

"The script was made by you,  FOR YOU ! I don't know how to talk about... fuckin'...what does the script mean when it just randomly says 'talk about coffee around the world'! I don't know about coffee from around the world!"

"Then just talk about whatever!" He opened the door, "Like nail polish or something girly! A surprising amount of my listeners are women—"

"  Girly  !?" You were practically shaking from anger now, and he turned to look at you. He didn't seem intimidated by you, but he definitely soon shared the sentiment of anger.

"Are you on your  cycle  or something?" 

You froze. 

"What did you just say?" Your voice was sharp. Sharper than a dagger.

He knew he fucked up, but he stuck with it, his voice a little more uneasy.

"Your  uhm  ...." He trailed off, a little less confident than before.

"You—you  cunt ! Fucking..." You were on the verge of tears. 

Ha.  Gentleman . Right.

You actually thought that maybe he wasn't as bad as all the other men.

You stormed out of the house past him. It was raining and dark outside, but you didn't care. Your dress became soaked as your heels furiously stomped on the sidewalk. 

You heard him say your name maybe twice, but soon, he either gave up, or you just blocked out his voice.

It's stupid, right? Getting so hurt over people assuming you must be on your cycle or something.

Because women  always  overreact,  right ? They're hysterical. They need to be tamed by a man.

Tears stained your cheeks as you sniffled. You felt particularly terrible because it took you 4 fucking days of knowing him for him to actually pull this shit on you.

Usually, you would kill them or at least slap them and cuss in their face, but you didn't.

You couldn't. 

Why couldn't you?   

Dancing with you, letting you sleep at his place, not caring you were in pants, cooking, speaking to you like an equal.

You walked until you stumbled into Anthony's bar. It was the closest one and was surprisingly packed for a Sunday evening. 

You sat down at one of the stools, and the bartender you'd known for a while now came up to you.

"Strongest thing you got, Hajek."

He raised a brow, "What's wrong?" He asked as he poured you a shot of 98% alcohol. You downed it, no questions asked.

"  Fucking men  ." 

"I'm a man, you know." He grumbled. 

You looked at him, "Oh really? I didn't know." You spoke with dry sarcasm.

"Maybe you're the only man who doesn't view women as inferior." You mused expression dejected as you poured yourself another shot.

"Uh, Anthony doesn't."

"Anthony? First names?" You raised a brow, wiping away some tears from your face.

"He insists." Hajek shrugged, looking over across the bar to Anthony who was surrounded by women hoping to be the next mob wife. He seemed completely uninterested.

"Is he like..you know..?" You asked, and Hajek sighed with exhaustion.

"When he has 4 margaritas, yes." 

"With that pink suit... isn't he always?" 

Hajek laughed, voice raspy.

"Ah, you." He grinned, "Oh right, here's the newest paper. Since ya keep up with all that serial killer shit." He tossed a newspaper in front of you before walking away to tend to others. 

You read the newspaper, hoping to get your mind off of things, and also because you did keep up with serial killers, specifically yourself, wanting to keep up with any leads.

'Investigators are gaining clues on the Smiley Killer. One step closer to his identity?'

Boring .

You drowned in your misery. Maybe you should have just done the  damn  broadcast. Talk about nail polish and makeup, two things you rarely partake in. At least you'd have somewhere to stay. 

What the fuck was Alastor even doing? It seemed urgent. Like he had to bury a body or something.

"Can I buy you a drink, hotshot?"

You looked over; it was just some guy with short black hair extending a hand out to you like some businessman.

"Names  Travis  ." He added with a toothy grin.

You thought about killing him, but you didn't have your knife.

"Not interested." 

"Come on! I don't bite."

" Absolutely not ."

He huffed, called you a slut, and then walked off.

Then, a couple seconds later, he came back with someone else.

This guy was much taller and lean. He had a cigarette in his mouth and the longest red...Was it a coat or a robe? He had a cocky smile plastered across his face. 

He sat next to you, leaning on the counter. He had these outlandish pink heart glasses on, and his eyes were half-lidded. What the—

"  Darling , you look down on your luck." He spoke, voice suave as he took a drag from his cigar. 

"I'm not interested." He seemed to look down on you despite being next to you. It was intimidating and it made your skin crawl enough for you to shiver in discomfort.

"No, no, I'm not asking for that...well, not directly, at least." He smirked, "Do you need a job, mi amor?" 

You considered your response. "What are you talking about?" 

He laughed; it was overly long and his voice was low, almost seductive, but in a somehow  threatening  way.

"You're pretty; I want you to be one of my girls." He ran his hand through your hair, flinching when you slapped it away. He chuckled darkly. "Don't be like that!" His voice betrayed his cold expression.

"  Don't touch me  ." You sneered, glaring at him.

"My my... don't walk into a lion's den, kitten." He purred, visibly entertained by you. "I am rather famished."

"  Fuck off  !" You were getting louder now, and people were staring. Now this guy seemed pissed, his smile dropping as he stubbed his cigar on the bar counter.

"Do you know who I am,  little girl   ?" His voice was low, a little quiet. Some of the room's eyes were now on you, and Hajek was in the back of the bar. He looked like a scared cat.

"No, and I don't care." You swallowed back your fear, trying to appear more brave than you actually felt at the moment. He leaned closer until his face was inches from yours, his eyes boring into your soul through his sunglasses.

"Say, do you think you'll go to heaven or hell?" He asked, his smile showing his sharp teeth.

He was trying to intimidate you. To scare you away.

He's probably all bark, no bite.

That is what you thought until you saw the outline of a gun in his robe and people from all corners of the bar glaring at you.

Unfortunately for him, you bite.

You tried to slap him, but he grabbed your wrist before it could hit his cheek. 

Bingo . 

You shoved your knee and slammed it into his crotch, using that moment of weakness to push him, stumbling over behind the people sitting behind him.

Just like your mom taught you.

And just like she taught you to do next, run and hope you don't get caught.

He cursed and shouted something, but you were already stumbling out of the bar. 

You were never good at running. Usually, you did the chasing, but somehow, you found yourself a couple blocks down, and you'd lost the 4-5 men with batons chasing you. You stopped by a building, catching your breath. You stifled a laugh, letting yourself fall to the ground, leaning against the brick wall of some office building behind you. Cool air stung your warm cheeks, and adrenaline was still rushing through you.

You looked down at your wrist, which was bleeding and bruised, the dull pain finally hitting you. You smiled, having gotten out some of the anger that boiled inside you.

For a second, the rush made you forget about it all, but like always, it faded too quickly, and the drug wore off...and then drowsiness. 

You found yourself nearly falling asleep—  Maybe  it wasn't the smartest idea considering his...goons or whatever could theoretically still be looking for you...But whatever. 

A car stopped by you, the window rolling down and a head popping out from the window to look at you.

" Oh darling, is that you?!  "

Chapter Text

"Oh darling, is that you!?" 

" Rosie ?" You mumbled as you got up, trying to get a closer look. There was no mistaking that pale skin and accent.

She didn't waste time getting out of the car and running to you, placing the back of her hand on your forehead, checking if you were sick.

"Are you okay? What happened to you!" She exclaimed, gasping as she saw your wrist, grasping it and inspecting it. "Who did this to you?" 

You were overwhelmed all at once, considering you'd only met this woman once. 

"Just a fight." You reassured her, but it didn't seem to help calm her concern.

"Why aren't ya at Al's?" She asked, hands now on your shoulders as she searched your eyes for an answer. 

"We got into a fight." You mumbled, and she gasped.

"What did he do this time?!" Her voice was like a mother figuring out her son broke the rules and is going to get grounded.

By the time you finished ranting, you were already in the passenger seat of her car, and you didn't even ask where she was driving; you were too busy venting.

It took her a second to reply, but she was visibly upset. "Why, that's no way to treat a lady!" She huffed, "I'm sorry about that, dearie. He's a social recluse; he doesn't know how to communicate sometimes." 

"Doesn't he talk for a living?" 

She laughed at that. "To a box , yes!" 

You couldn't help but snicker at her words. "Where are we going?" You questioned.

"His house so I can lecture him." She smiled, and you shook your head.

"I don't want to be around him!" Your voice came off more whiney than intended.

"Listen, I've known Al for years. He's not intentionally like this..and I'm sure he'll apologize if you ask him to! Say, do you know his secret yet?"

"What secret?" You asked, and Rosie was quick to take it back, laughing.

"Oh, nothing~!"

You sighed as you pulled into his driveway. The kitchen light was on, indicating that he was home. Rosie got out of the car and went over to your side.

"Now, dearie , come on." She cooed as she opened the passenger seat door, offering you a hand, which you took.

Rosie was the one to knock on the door, and Alastor answered. He looked like a complete mess. His hair is all messy, his glasses crooked, and his shirt slightly unbuttoned. You looked behind him and you could see an array of newspapers scattered across the floor, writing on them and circles on certain parts of the papers. It looked awfully familiar to the newspaper you were reading just earlier about the Smiley Face Killer. Maybe he was some true crime addict?

What the fuck.

"Alastor." Rosie brought a hand to her hip. 

"Hello, Rosie! And.." He looked to you, smile faltering.

"Don't act all dumb now." She wriggled her finger. It was more entertaining because of how taller she was than him.

"Right!" Alastor said but didn't add anything else. He had bags under his eyes, and he looked like he might just faint at any moment from exhaustion.

"Are you okay?" She asked. You noticed how, right now, she didn't seem to be as maternal to him as she was to you earlier.

"Perfectly fine! I still need to gather my thoughts, so could she perhaps stay at yours tonight?"

Rosie looked behind him, seeming to come to realization when she saw the mess, nodding as her expression softened. 

"Of course." She reassured him before turning to you. "Let's just come back in the morning, okay? We can discuss this all over tea." She smiled at you.

You looked to her and then to Alastor, who was going cross-eyed now, yet still smiling. 

"Okay.." You muttered, and Alastor didn't waste time adding a quick 'thank you! Bye!' before slamming the door shut. 

You looked at Rosie, expecting her to explain what happened, but she didn't.

She just...walked back to the car, waiting for you to get in with her, a small smile still on her face.

You slept that night, but you had nightmares. Really blurry and unclear nightmares of a bayou. You were running, but not from something...rather with someone...but before you could decipher who, what, and why, you quickly switched and had some...well...unsavory dreams about Gloria Swanson.

You woke up panting and sweating. The sun shone through the blinds of the living room, where Rosie had set up a mat for you the night before. Looking around, you could see Rosie in the kitchen cooking. When she noticed you, she smiled.

"Good morning! How did ya sleep?" She grinned widely. The smell of eggs and bacon filled your senses, making you realize just how hungry you were.

"Fine." You got up, legs a little shaky as you walked into the kitchen, running a hand through your slightly knotted-up hair.

"You talk an awful lot in your sleep, you know..." She was still grinning as she said that, and your heart skipped a beat. God forbid you talked in your sleep during those Gloria Swanson dreams...

"Oh. Yeah.." You replied sheepishly, offering a nervous smile that only amused her more.

"I don't think you and Al are that different." She claimed, turning off the stovetop and sliding scrambled eggs onto a plate.

"Huh?" You looked at her, confused. She handed you a plate of bacon and eggs. She had such a unique smile. Like she was going to eat you, but be polite about it...

"Oh, nothing, dearie!" She smiled, walking out of the kitchen to go wrap up the mattress she set out for you.

"Thanks for your hospitality," you said, taking a bite of the crunchy bacon—just as you liked it. The taste assaulted your taste buds, but welcomingly so.

"Of course!" She rolled up the mattress, picked it up and took the blankets in one hand, tossing them into a hamper. Oh, and we're going to Al's at 10! And it's 9:30 now, so you should probably get ready," she encouraged, walking off to her own room to get ready as well.

You groaned at the thought of facing him. You could have been better at handling conflict. Even if it was something minimal, you always hated facing it. So having to go up front to Alastor and...talk it out, even with Rosie there, made you feel on edge. And not in a good way like Gloria Swanson was in your dreams.

You had to borrow some of Rosie's clothes since you didn't get a chance to grab spare clothes from Alastor's last night. You wore a long plum-colored dress with white lacey frills at the bottom. The dress was paired with a white fascinator, which complimented the delicate features of the outfit.

Looking in the mirror, you realize you'd never dressed so fancy before. Rosie walked up, hands on your shoulders as she turned you to face, applying some blush and plum lipstick to match your dress. When you looked in the mirror again, the look felt complete.

"Oh, you're drop-dead gorgeous!"

"Why are we dressing up again?"

"Because it's fun, dearie!" She smiled, giving you a small shake by the shoulders before walking to the front door. You followed, grabbing your purse before leaving.

During the car ride, you talked mostly about fashion. You learned that Rosie grew up in a more financially stable home than you, which surprised you. She wasn't snobby. She was humble and kind. She was also eager to learn about how you dressed growing up and living on a budget.

When you got to Alastor's house, your heart raced again. It was obviously because of the whole resolving conflict thing—there were no other reasons.

Rosie was right beside you with her signature 'Rosie smile' when you knocked on the door. You took a deep breath.

You can do this

You can do this

You can—

"Hello.." Alastor opened the door. He looked a little guilty, one hand behind his back and the other on the doorknob.

You can't do this.

"Hi." Wait, what do you say next? Fuck.

"You look beautiful," Alastor said, followed by silence. Eventually, he seemed to either realize he couldn't avoid it or gain the confidence to say it. "I'm sorry about last night."

You looked up to him. His eyes seemed sincere, and he wasn't smiling right now. He brought his hand from behind his back, revealing a small bouquet of lavender flowers. You were speechless. You could hear Rosie squealing quietly with happiness like she was watching the final scene in a rom-com.

"Oh. I—uh...thank you." You smiled awkwardly as you took the bouquet. It smelled nice and matched your dress. Alastor took a deep breath before continuing.

"What I said was wrong. I seemed to have..." He looked over to Rosie, and you could only guess Rosie gave him a disapproving glare. "I definitely did say the wrong words. I truly do apologize, and I hope that we can continue being business partners." Alastor offered an unsure yet charming smile. It was infectious. Why were his smiles so damn infectious? He seemed so docile. Like a fawn. Those big doe eyes staring at you. You could almost mistake him for one.

"I forgive you." You replied, holding the bouquet close to your chest. It was sweet. Really sweet. You just had to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

"Yay! I'm glad things are resolved between you two~!" Rosie cheered, clapping her hands in celebration. The guilty look on Alastor's face slowly dissipated into his usual confident one, lightening the mood a bit.

"I made coffee. I'm assuming you want some?" He focused his attention fully on you now.

"Absolutely." You replied, walking inside. 

"Oh! No tea?" Rosie pouted playfully. "Well, I'll get going! I have to do floristy—things!" She waved, walking off back to her car.

Alastor was in the kitchen. He'd already made the coffee, pouring it into two mugs as you sat down at the dinner table. The whole place seemed completely fixed up from last night. The newspapers were gone, and everything looked back to normal. It made you feel....uneasy. Sorta?

"What were you doing last night?" You asked while Alastor set down a mug in front of you. He sat down across from you, smiling again.

"Oh dear, just some difficulties regarding personal matters." 

You felt chills from that alone. Personal matters...regarding a murder case? He seemed to catch onto your suspicion, but he didn't seem too worried.

"Did you read the newspaper?" He asked. 

Did you? Well, yes, obviously you did. But was telling the truth the correct answer? Despite his kind demeanor and the literal bouquet he just gave you a bit ago, you found yourself mapping out weapons. The nearest butter knife, blunt object, how many locks were on the doors. Why the fuck was there so many locks on the doors?

"Yes." You replied. His grin only grew.

"I lost a family member to the killer." It was an obvious cop-out. You both knew it. There was a short silence that felt like forever where he was just smiling at you, seeming completely relaxed.

"Are we going live today?" You asked, changing the subject. You felt the tension ease...for now.

"Yes. That is if you're okay with that. To make up for yesterday." 

"Yeah, that's fine." You took a sip of your coffee, the warmth burning your taste buds in all the right ways.

Night came, and the broadcast went smoothly. Then, the next week came and flew by smoothly.

It went more smoothly than expected.

It seems like as soon as he switches on air, his whole demeanor changes, and the awkwardness subsides. You had also been getting used to a personality for these shows. He was the showsman, talking on and on about subjects, and you became the commentator. It was playful, and you found that the playfulness banter you both exhibited during broadcasts spilled into day-to-day life. After all, you did live with him now. You'd begun running errands while he did work at home and coming back to do the laundry and other housework. You also went out for walks and to go shopping for new clothes. You were financially stable now. You could afford the fascinator Rosie lent you and then the dress. When Rosie came by on Wednesday to see Alastor, she said you looked "drop-dead gorgeous," and Alastor silently agreed, eyeing you for just a second.

Okay, okay, why did the time skip forward? Why this specific moment? Well, tonight was a night you had the particular urge to be a little naughty...

By killing! What did you think? Get your head out of the gutter! Not yet!

You didn't say bye to Alastor since he was busy, leaving a note on the fridge that said you'd be at the bar, setting out for the bar to kill someone.

Travis, specifically. He totally fucked you over at the bar last week, and you didn't let people just mess with you. You were fucking pissed, and by luck, he was at the bar, sitting in a corner with Valentino and his gang of abused girls.

You wore a dress just like the one Rosie let you borrow. A little fancy for the bar, but that made you stick out. You had added a knife pocket on the inside of a coat you'd bought, too.

Hajek looked livid, like a grumpy cat glaring at Valentino. He was so lost in what was probably murder thoughts that he didn't even notice you had sat down on a bar stool until you cleared your throat.

" Oh, you ." He said in his usual unbothered, raspy voice. "What tonight?" He asked, eyes still wandering to Valentino.

"What's got you mad?" You asked, leaning in to hear him better.

"Anthony is scared of him. He left early because he came here, and he won't tell me why, but I'm assuming it's not pretty." 

"You're...really protective." I looked back at Hajek from Valentino.

"Didn't his men chase you out a week ago?" Hajek looked at you, confused.

"Yeah, but he's probably too coked up to remember." You muttered out. Just then, like you were brand new, Travis popped up, leaning onto the counter with a smug grin. He was obviously heavily intoxicated.

" Heyyy~ what's a pretty like you lady doing hereeee..." His speech was jumbled and slurred. Hajek just glared at him, wiping the counter his arm touched like he would spread the plague. 

"Oh, you're too kind." You smiled softly, crossing one leg over the other. It hurts your dignity to do it in front of Hajek, but you honestly don't think any sober person would buy your act. Hajek just rolled his eyes and walked off.

"Youuuu seem very familiarrrr?" he tilted his head, hiccuping. You shrugged, eyes meeting his as you gave your best laugh.

"Oh, I don't believe so." You replied, leaning onto the counter and making your turn to 'tuck a strand of hair behind the ear.' It seemed to inflict a great amount of damage, his jaw nearly dropping to the floor as he messily moved greasy black strands of hair away from his flustered face. "You're cute, though." You lied, smile turning into a smirk. "Wanna be a lucky man tonight?" You moved a little closer.

The way he chuckled and hiccuped made you want to dig your blade into his throat and rip his vocal cords out, being the last one to hear his pathetic screams. He probably screams like a chicken.

"I sure do ~" He leaned in closer, eyes half-lidded in a weak attempt at being seductive. You wrapped an arm around his waist, helping him stand up as you led him out of the bar. You could have sworn you saw Hajek grin at the corner of your eye, but maybe you were just seeing things. 

"Why dooooon't youuu have a boyfrieeeeeend?" He asked, burping. "Husssbuh-hand?"

"No sir… What? Wanna be the lucky man?" You asked, leading him down to the same alleyway where you killed your last victim. Honestly, maybe you should call it 'fun alley'...or maybe something more smart.

You felt his hand drift to your rear, giving it a squeeze. "Do you—" you plunged the knife into his throat. His eyes widened, a loud scream erupting from him as you pushed him onto the wall, twisting the knife and watching his face contort in pain as he lost the ability to scream.

His eyes met yours. You wonder what he saw; did he see something? Did he see a person capable of loving and being loved or a person who's cold and emotionless? His eyes lost color, expression turning despondent as he became dead weight. You retracted your knife, and he fell to the ground, a pool of blood forming beneath him. You could see a clear hole in his neck. Maybe you should play golf with it, use his eyeball as the balls.

"Sloppy." Someone spoke from the end of the alleyway.

Chapter Text

" Sloppy ."

You turned around and saw him. 

He had short brown hair, small circular glasses and his usual red vest.

He was smiling, and you could have sworn his doe brown eyes turned into red siren ones.

Your grip on the knife tightened as you took it out of the dead man's throat, taking a small step back. 

"Alastor, " you said, eyes stuck on him with slight concern. He looked so nonchalant about it and even sported a proud, twisted grin on his face—the kind that made your stomach churn with a sense of unease.

"Iron Lung." He took a step closer...and then another. His hands were clasped together, and the street lights behind him cast an eerie shadow over his face. You felt your heart race and breathing quicken. Why? You were the one holding the knife. Every time he drawled closer, you felt a tingle up your spine like spiders were crawling up it.

"Why are you here?" It was a stupid question. Was that really the most of your worries right now?

"The first day I met you at that bar, I knew by the look in your eyes that you weren't just 'walking that man home.'' No, you were killing him." Alastor spoke, amused.

God damn! Was he really gonna have one of those cool yet cringe villain monologues??

"And sure enough, the next day on the news, I saw his face." Alastor patted off his jacket as he stopped just a few feet in front of you. "Which brings me back to what I said previously. Sloppy ."

" Sloppy ?" You repeated; you were at a complete loss for words. It was amusing and odd how uncaring and even…amused he looked as you kept a tight grip on your knife, a silent threat in the air that he either didn't notice or simply did not care about. "And you're the Smiley Face Killer, " I added, watching him take another step closer. 

You knew what the smiley face killer did. Killing innocent men and women and then dumping their bodies in the bayou only for them to be found a week later by a wandering person. The careful incisions on their body were terrifying enough (even to you), but what was worse was the missing limbs. Sometimes, only the head was found. Most people liked to think it was an alligator that ripped the limbs apart, but the cuts were too clean.

"Indeed I am!" He clapped his hands in mock celebration. The air felt stiff as he took another step closer, stopping once he was a measly foot in front of you. He clasped his hands behind his back like he usually did, but now it felt like more of a way to tell you he wasn't gonna pull anything. It didn't soothe your nerves one bit, though.

"Don't act like they haven't been up your ass lately." You mentioned before crossing your arms. The streetlights provided an eerie reflection on the bloodied blade, which warped Alastor's smile into a much larger one that bordered on creepy.

" Perhaps . Unfortunately, I kill a lot more, which leaves room for more slip-ups. But you've had your fair share of slip-ups, too, haven't you?" He commented, a wide grin on his face.

He wasn't wrong. You almost got caught just last year after killing some guy. There was a witness. Thank god it was too dark to make out most of your features, but the police investigated you for a good 2 months afterward.

"So why are you here…?" You asked, eyes glued onto his with uncertainty. The tension in the air was so thick you could stab it with a knife.

"You intrigue me. I would hate to see you go to prison, dear! After all, you are my employee. A valued one at that!" 

"So I'm important to you. So what? Are you gonna train me to 'do better' or something?" You asked sarcastically.

" Precisely ."

"Pre—what?!" You couldn't help but stifle a scoff. My mere idea both intrigued you and pissed you off to no end. Your eye twitched slightly in annoyance. Right. Because you need another man to mansplain to you how things work when you're doing just fine.

Imagine two artists. You're one, and you have a friend that's one. The friend essentially insults your artwork. That hurts more than someone who isn't an artist insulting your artwork because, holy shit, they know what they're talking about. So you kick said friend in the balls and watch him fall to his knees crying!

That's what this felt like.

Your hand on your knife clenched tightly, not out of an intent to use it but from the minor annoyance of the mere prospect of the idea.

Although, the idea was interesting…

The whole situation was interesting. 

But it was also…

"You're crazy." You said, but it lacked malice.

"You aren't?" 

"At least I leave my victims in one piece."

"At least I bury them."

" Parts of them ."

Alastor was smiling, a little irritated by your blatant disrespect for his art. His lack of reaction compared to you made you feel annoyed too.

"Fine."

"Fine?" Alastor raised a brow, still grinning. He wanted to hear you say it again. That was painfully obvious.

"Fine." You slipped your knife into your jacket pocket. You had been careful enough not to get any blood on your dress, leaving it spotless. However, you'd have to go through a lot to get the inevitable blood stains in your jacket pockets. Ugh .

"First lesson, don't leave a body behind." He sighed.

You expected imps to step foot on earth more than you expected to end up talking to another serial killer about murder. You especially didn't expect to enjoy it either.

It started with silence on the way back to the car and ended with talking about your favorite place to find victims. Obviously, yours was the bar. Apparently, Alastor dabbled in finding victims at the bar but also found them at underground gambling rings and other areas of towns where more illicit behaviors went down. 

"So what? Do you fight them?" You asked brows raised and a laugh escaping your lips, only to be met with silence. " Wait, you do?! " 

Something about Alastor, a literal stick, fighting a man three times bigger and buffer than him and winning made you laugh even more. Alastor, despite his slight dismay at being insulted like that, just laughed. It was oddly comforting despite the strange situation of how Alastor never really took things to heart.

Alastor made it seem so.... casual , like talking about the weather. It made you feel like you belonged somewhere, even though it probably should have made you feel uneasy and scared. 

You could easily be manipulated by him, and you knew that, but at the same time, you didn't really think he was going to kill you. Not yet at least.

In some sick and twisted way, you felt like you connected with him, and the anger at him calling you 'sloppy' seemed to subside just like that.

You both had taken the body back home, and it was hard on your lower back. You knew dead bodies were heavy, but this was absurd. Alastor opened the trunk, grabbing the legs while you grabbed the shoulders, carrying him inside.

"What are you going to do with him?"

"Oh, we're taking him down to the basement for now," Alastor said with a shrug, carrying the body with little to no issues.

"Basement?! " You were stunned. "In New Orleans?"

He nodded, grinning as he guided you to a basement in a more secluded part of the first floor, hidden behind a bunch of plants. 

When he opened the door, the smell hit you harder than...something. (I'm not making a dirty joke.) 

It reeked of a rotten scent, making you gag and nearly vomit. Alastor, however, seemed unbothered as he gestured for you to let go of the body, which you gladly did, lingering by the stairwell to the basement.

He was amused by your expression, laughing a bit.

"Not used to the smell?"

"Is there... more down there? " You couldn't even be shocked. He turned on the light to the basement once he'd dragged Travis down to the bottom, and sure enough, there were at least 5 more. The floor had blood splatters on it and bodies just lying on the concrete ground. It was gruesome. Some had no heads, and others were missing other limbs. On a wooden table was an array of knives and other kitchen utensils and even a saw, along with a fridge.

"Oh...so...arts and crafts?" You asked, joking, but also ready to not be surprised if that was true.

Alastor laughed at that. "Food." 

Shocking would be an understatement. " Food?! "

He nodded as he dropped Travis next to some of the other bodies. His sleeves were rolled up now, and his hair was slicked back with sweat as he bent down. He dug his hands through your victim's pockets, pulled out a wallet, and set it on the table. You had just watched from the stairwell leading down into the basement, blinking twice and then thrice.

"So that's what the plants are for?" You asked, turning around to look at the plants covering his house again before looking back to see he had a saw in his hand now and gloves on.

"Yes. But I also really do love plants."

You flinched as you saw him start cutting through Travis' neck, blood spurting out from leftover arteries you didn't cut open and slicing straight through the tendons. He pressed his body weight down on the saw when he got to the bone, breaking through it with a loud 'crack!' you flinched, looking away and bringing a hand to your mouth as you tried to swallow back down vomit. Alastor seemed to notice your discomfort, stopping for a second to look back up to you.

"Darlin’, why don't you go fix dinner?" He asked, smiling so charmingly, even while blood was splattered across his face. 

"S-sure." Was all you managed to get out, taking a deep breath and closing the door shut. You felt so nauseous. He's more insane than you. You would never dissect a body and especially not eat it! The mere thought back you gag as you stumbled away from the door, unable to handle even the faintest smell of his secret in the basement. 

Oh God. 

That was disgusting. 

But also kind of...

Nope.

Nope!

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

You were never a great cook—that was quite possibly your biggest weakness—but you knew how to make grilled cheese damn it!

Get the bread, cook it on the stovetop for a bit, then add some butter and cheese. Put it together, flip it once or twice, and then you're done! (Pretty much). 

When Alastor came back out, he was in a new and clean white button up, and there was not a spot of blood on him. He looked clean and was dressed with his usual smile and his glasses polished.

It made you wonder how often he'd done this. Showing up looking clean and perfectly fine after chopping up a dead body. You still felt a little uneasy, and you weren't even in the room for the majority of the time he did that. You looked down at your grilled cheese, wondering if he would have preferred Travis' flayed skin as an extra layer to the grilled cheese. 

The idea made you feel sick again.

 You quickly handed the plate to Alastor, which he gladly took and almost immediately sat down on the counter before walking over to you. He had a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned down to your level beside you, almost in some sort of mocking gesture to your height.

"Too much?" He simply asked.

You felt the need to lie and say it was fine. After all, despite your independence, it was the 1920s and your brain was hardwired from a young age to crave acceptance and approval from men . Which was a whole other issue to unpack…You decided to be honest. "More than. I don't understand how you can do that." You admitted, leaning against the counter. You pinched the bridge of your nose. You would also admit you looked like a disappointed parent now about to reluctantly ground their child. Your whole body felt all tense, and your heart began to race a bit when you thought about it.

Alastor, despite himself, couldn't help but feel a little bit of sympathy in his own way. You weren't exactly sure if he could even genuinely feel sympathy at this point, but he sure knew how to mimic it as he put a reassuring hand on your back. "That's fine. Most people aren't cut out to be murderers. "

What???

All you heard was, "Please punch me in the face!'" How confusing! You might just have to take him up on that request.

You shot him a glare, unsure if he even meant to sound comforting or mocking when he said those words. You couldn't decide.

"Just eat." You said with an exasperated sigh. "I need to sleep."

That mask with a never ending smile was so thick it was impossible to see through even the eyeholes. Part of you wanted to rip it off and see what darkness lies beneath, to peel away the delicately crafted layers of fictitious perfection and charm. What does he look like when he kills his victims? You felt a shiver go down your spine at the thought of it. He was sadistic and insane . More so than you . You couldn't help but fear seeing behind that mask. You assumed there would be a hole. An empty hole devoid of anything remotely human. Just darkness. One that would most likely urge you closer before sucking you in. A brutal fate worse than death as the hole closed in on itself and crushed your bones and internal organs slowly. He would probably laugh a mirthful laugh when he hears your pained screams.

And you would love it.

You'd love every second of it.

What's gotten into you?

Chapter Text

https://imgur.com/a/OHR0vgN

(Hoping the link works idk how to add images so)

Chapter Text

1 week later.

You watched the last of the water drain in the bathtub from where you sat,  the steam that accumulated in the tub made you sweat, strands of hair sticking to your damp forehead. But the warmth of the water helped soothe your frayed mind which still raced with the aftermath from yesterday. You were living with the Smiley Face Killer . You , the Iron Lung . And he just trusted you not to tell anyone? You weren't going to, but still . You stayed up nearly every night this past week pondering it and the outcomes of this newfound and rather odd connection between you two.

Things were surprisingly normal. Not a word was uttered about the whole ' killing ' thing, even in the confines and privacy of the house. It was like both of you were waiting for the other to bring it up, but neither of you did. What was there to say anyway? This wasn't a shared interest in reading or drawing, this was a shared interest in taking lives. Are you supposed to make jokes about it? Or ask a question? Or is it simply not important right now?

You tried to forget about it, at least for now. It was Tuesday, so you had to write scripts, which you had begun to find rather easy.

Despite your somewhat offstandish and somewhat ' dry ' self, you found writing jokes and entertaining quips to be rather easy. You just never quite had the confidence to say it in real life. You found that jokes landed better when told by a man. Whenever you told them, you were usually met with scrutiny and weird looks. You were expected to be docile and innocent, not make jokes about dead bodies and especially not about politics. But you could when you wrote those scripts.

You got out of the bathtub, wrapped a towel around your body, and walked out of the bathroom into your room. You sat on your bed beside the nightstand, ignoring how wet the sheets and carpet were getting from your lack of attempts to dry yourself off. You hated how the towel felt when rubbed against your skin–it made you want to peel it off.

Picking up the journal on your nightstand, you skimmed through it, finding a couple pages filled with some ideas you had for skits and tearing them out to take to your office. 

Alastor was away; he was out meeting with the city council. Why? He was trying to get his radio show licensed and recognized as an actual business. So he left at the crack of dawn, leaving a note saying he would be back at 5 pm and to make something. You really weren't sure why he kept having you cook. Sure, it was part of your job description, but you really can only cook grilled cheese well enough for it to be edible. That's your only culinary talent. Everything else somehow turns out to be seasoned too much or burnt to a crisp. Whatever. You supposed it wasn't a big deal, maybe he had faith you would get better at cooking someday? Flattering . But no.

You got up once you finished peacefully drying under the sun shining through your window; you slid on a black knee-length drop waist dress with a collar and short sleeves before looking in the mirror briefly. It was casual and comfortable for a day at home. You could only dream of wearing elegant satin dresses, fancy wide-brim hats with feathers, and pearl necklaces. Do you have the money to dress like that on a night out? You fawned over the mere idea. Don't misunderstand yourself; you don't crave the male validation or attention that comes from dressing up; you prefer the compliments from women and that feeling you get when you look in the mirror and see a pretty person in pretty clothes.

Of course, you were able to not too long ago when Rosie let you borrow that gorgeous dress. Ever since then, you've realized just how much of a liking you've taken to fashion. Ever since getting this job as a radio host a couple weeks ago, you've made a fair amount of money to the point where not all of it had to go towards buying a house–rather you could split some money on dresses, accessories, shoes, you name it.

You tore yourself from your thoughts, sighing. You grabbed the papers you'd ripped out of your journal, finally got out of your room, and walked down the hallway to your cramped office. You'd actually learned to enjoy the cramped space. Even with your decidedly extreme claustrophobia, nothing really beats the feeling of being surrounded by an old book smell and knowing you were completely alone and undisturbed. Even when Alastor was home, he rarely bothered you when you were in your office working.

After unfolding the journal papers, you made sure the ink on the typewriter was full before beginning to type.

Why did the mobster bring a shovel to the speakeasy?

Because he was digging the music... and a grave right after.

Guilty as charged. You let out a small laugh at your own joke. Okay, fine, you got your humor from dad jokes and dark humor. The mixture of the two made something that Alastor's audience recently took quite a liking to. Even the older folks enjoyed it since it wasn't too explicit but was easy to understand as a dark joke. Plus, since the schedule's time was moved up an hour instead, ranging from 6–9 pm, adults would most likely be the only ones tuning in.

Since Saturday's broadcast was scheduled to be extended, you added a recipe. You also wrote some jokes sprinkled in with the recipe at the end. It was too easy to add at least one joke about ladyfingers . The UK has such strange names for food…

You spent a while on that particular script. After all, it was going to be an extended broadcast. However, you were a workaholic. Even though your fingers cramped up and the sound of the typewriter was beginning to make you want to rip your hair out, you enjoyed the rush of work.

So you might have gotten a wee bit carried away and wrote scripts for the next few broadcasts.

No biggie , right?

Well, it was 5 pm, and Alastor came home. Only then did you realize you forgot to make dinner. You internally slapped yourself. Workaholic or unintentionally avoiding things you dread? Probably both. You were quick to go downstairs, only to meet an exhausted Alastor. He had slight bags under his eyes, and his cheeks looked a little more hollow than usual. He had his coat in his arms as he set down his briefcase on the kitchen counter. You wondered how he still kept his smile.

"Sorry, I forgot." You spoke up, walking over to rest your arms on the counter, looking over at him and his loose tie.

"It's quite alright, dear. I assume you've been working, hmm?" He asked, taking off his glasses to wipe off the fog. It was pretty misty outside today.

You simply nodded, looking him over. He wore his usual fancy attire, and of course, he kept his dress shoes on inside the house, tracking dirt inside that you would have to clean up later. You didn't mention it, even though you literally just cleaned the floors yesterday.

"So…How did it go?"

"Well, I'm afraid it didn't go as well as one would hope, " he said with a slight sigh, his annoyance clear on his face as he put his glasses back on.

"What happened?" You asked, watching as he hung his coat on the coat hanger before loosening his tie and adjusting his cufflinks.

"The city council appears to be racially biased ." He replied bluntly. That was one way to say they were racist. A very direct way at that. It irked you in the kind of way that made you want to put them on the news tomorrow. You could sense his annoyance, it was clear as day.

You stifled a scoff. " Seriously ?" you questioned, but you only earned an exasperated shrug in response. It was painfully obvious he was trying to play off his frustration as he sat on the couch, laying his head back and looking up to the ceiling.

"It's not a big deal, dear. We're perfectly stable without the license, " he said, letting out a deep breath to ease his tension. You paused, 'We're'. We. Right, well, you lived together. Obviously, there was a 'we'. Despite the insanity of it all, there was something comforting about being included when, ever since childhood, it was always 'me.'

Your inner thoughts seemed to come to a halt when your friend took a seat at the dining table, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. Of course, he had emotions other than unsettling happiness. You looked over to where he sat, unsure of what to do.

You weren't good with emotions. You understood them and felt them, but you never really knew how to help others, especially when 'others' just so happened to be Alastor. It's not like he expected you to offer support anyway, but you did nonetheless, not out of self-applied obligation, but... Care(?).

"You think they would taste good?" You joked, smiling a bit as you broke the silence, leaning against the counter. It was an attempt to cheer him up, even just a little bit. It was new, and Alastor even looked at you briefly to make sure he was still talking to the 'feisty girl' he hired.

It nearly gave you whiplash how quickly he went from frustrated and slightly dejected to amused, interested, and excited. He looked like a puppy when Pavlov rang the bell.

"You're a smart one, aren't you?" He grinned a little wider, contemplating the idea.

"Just now realizing that..?"

You didn't expect him to actually consider doing it, but you also didn't mind. Rather, you found yourself becoming intrigued by the killing part (not the eating part). You felt no urge to defend the five men sitting at a table deciding who gets to have a licensed business and who doesn't based on race. Alastor caught on to your interest; of course, he did.

"Why don't we make a plan?" He offered, getting up and walking into the kitchen to grab a glass and bottle of whisker. "You charm them, I kill them."

"I don't get to kill any?" You asked, raising a brow. He chuckled at your response as he poured himself a glass of whisker.

"Ah, fine. You'll get 2, how about that?" He proposed as casually as one would, discussing a trip to the park.

Honestly, you didn't mind the casual demeanor and tone he held with a devilish smirk on his face. You could get used to the mischievous glint in his eyes and the way his teeth looked sharper when his lips curled up.

You didn't mind it one bit. In fact…It was kind of…– interesting. 

Interesting . 

That's it.

"Deal." You accepted before watching him down the entire glass of whiskey he'd just poured with a dumbfounded expression. You wish you could say you were surprised, but this just further sealed the deal–he was a certified psychopath. What next? Pineapples on pizza?

"Helps me think." He said, swallowing down the bitter taste that burned his throat with little to no reaction–and then saying alcohol helped him think.

"Does it now..?"

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

You got a promotion.

At least, that's what Alastor said when you both sat down later that night to discuss this 'plan' over a cup of coffee. Because nothing beats coffee at 10 pm while talking about plans to murder bigots who are unfairly put in a role of power.

Back on the promotion subject, were you earning more money? No. In fact, this man had the audacity to say you were earning something more fruitful and important; knowledge.

You promptly laughed in his face, earning a strained smile and slightly enthusiastic eye twitch. Theoretically speaking, you should be scared of pissing off a serial killer, especially when you're in his house…But did you really care? Unnerving as it was, after sleeping it off and mulling over it the entire day, you really realized you didn't care or see him as a threat in the slightest. Not now, at least.

After an uncomfortable laughing segment, you cleared your throat. "Thank you." The words were slightly mocking, a response to his backhanded charitable 'promotion.' You weren't sure you needed advice from him in the first place, much less knowledge. But perhaps there was a genuine intention behind his words.

"If you plan to charm them, you'll need to lose your sass, darling," Alastor spoke, taking a sip of his coffee before placing it back down on the coaster on the coffee table. He was relaxed, one leg crossed over the other and hands steepled on his lap as he looked at you with a–not necessarily cold–but calculating gaze.

"How do you think I've been able to get all those men in alleyways?" You challenged him. The sentence felt so odd. Talking about it felt odd. But also casual and nice at the same time–like you shared some unspoken and demented connection with him now, a string attaching you two, red with blood.

"They were drunk , were they not? It impairs the mind."

"Didn't you just say alcohol helps you think better?" You quirked up a brow as you mentioned his hypocrisy. He faltered when you said that before replying with a rebuttal. 

"You could call it a tolerance , " he said, though you weren't sure how someone gets a tolerance to downing a whole glass of whiskey . You figured it wasn't worth it to argue with him; you learned arguments over alcohol never end well from your father. So, the plan!" Alastor grinned widely, a glint in his eyes that could only be described as childlike if you didn't know the intent behind them. It sent a shiver down your spine.

You'd never come up with plans to murder people. It was always an 'at the moment decision' , an impulse . Alastor planned everything. From exiting the house to dumping the body in the bayou–No, that's wrong. He even planned a specific route home. He thought about it more. He premeditated it more. Everything was planned to the precise details. It was disturbing to you amongst being oddly fascinating.

He made a pretty detailed plan for this, too, but all you really got from it was;

Go into the council office after closing when the guys are still there.

You pretend to be a woman who got locked inside and talk a bunch.

Essentially, be smooth, lure them into a corner, then attack when they least expect it.

That summarized 30 minutes of things that could have been included in a short letter. Right?

Oh . He wasn't done.

"Now, I suggest you use something other than a pocket knife." He continued, and you zoned out.

You were tired, and you were just staring at Alastor, and it was really quite weird, not a listening type of stare, the kind that you would probably get from some drunk creep at a bar eyeing your tits. He noticed, and yet instead of mentioning it with some witty remark or a tease, he just kept his focus on talking about the plan, eventually trailing off and no longer talking. You didn't even notice, just kind of…Staring at his lips. Not for any particular reason.

You were only torn from your thoughts when you heard a shaky breath–one that sounded almost nervous and sheepish. And it wasn't coming from you.

Blink. Blink. (Cartoony onomatopoeia noises).

Honest mistake. You began to overthink again and zoned out completely, probably staring at him, unblinking. Which would make anyone uncomfortable. But the look on his face was odd. That was not Alastor; that was like a twin brother who wasn't psychopathic. He looked a little. Flustered? Endearingly, one that you could tell was confusing for the both of you. And also completely unwelcome . He was about to say something, but you were already talking, "I can make grilled cheese again."

He nodded awkwardly, eyes still on the ceiling as you turned for the kitchen, hoping the straining atmosphere wouldn't follow…. It did. Maybe telepathically speaking was possible. You two weren't even looking at each other, but somehow.

You chalked it up to writing scripts. Why? Well writing scripts made you more creative, you know what creative people do? Overthink things. Alastor was just stressed and frustrated. That wasn't a flustered look on his face; don't be silly. Seriously, why would he be flustered? That's not Alastor! That's crazy talk! Haha…ha…ha…

Sometime during cooking your "world-famous" grilled cheese, Alastor excused himself to finish some paperwork upstairs. You aren't even sure if you were listening; you were too focused on zoning out again. 

It would be absurd if he held any feelings towards you. Platonic or not. He killed people and ate their remains. He tortured them. You weren't much different, sure. But he was worse. Much, much worse. And you barely felt any emotions, so using 'math,' he must feel absolutely nothing. But he did feel frustration. He felt joy when he laughed. But affection? Love?

You wondered if he'd ever fallen in love.

You hoped he hadn't. You hoped he never fell in love. Ever. Why? To keep things simple.

You were his business partner. Possibly even a friend. There was obviously an unspoken connection from the shared…murdering, but it was merely platonically twisted and insane.

While trying to bend the rules to conclude that Alastor's simple shaky breath and awkward expression were nothing, you burnt the grilled cheese.

"Fuck.." You cursed under your breath, turning off the stovetop. You contemplated just eating the charcoal remains of bread and cheese. After all, it was quite expensive…

DING DONG (Another onomatopoeia)

You nearly burnt yourself from the way you jumped. The doorbell was still unnecessarily loud. With a tired sigh, you set down the spatula, walked over to the door and looked through the peephole. You saw… Nobody?

DIIIIING DOOOONG (So many onomatopoeias, this might be a kink now).

You nearly jumped out of your boots (that you weren't even wearing). "Hello?" You asked voice muffled slightly by the door

"Helloooo!" A girl's voice could be heard from the other side of the door. She had the voice of a soprano, maybe even a little more annoying. It sounded like a little girl's voice, which would make sense. Maybe she was too short to be seen through the peephole, too.

You unlocked the multiple locks on the door, opening it to see not a little girl but a grown woman. Well, grown is used very loosely in this sentence. She was 5" 1 and very petite. She had this short ginger hair combed to cover one eye and the palest skin that made her hazel eyes pop. She also wore this large smile on her face. The smile alone reminded you of Alastor, which was rare. Could anyone really replicate his smile?

You weren't entirely sure if she was a kid. She wore a black-and-white dot dress with a white collar and and then black Mary Janeswhite stockings. She looked like she was being dressed up by a parent, which was slightly unnerving.

"Hi, hi! New here? Where's the bad boy?" she asked with a grin, holding a hand out to shake yours, which you hesitantly did, still taking in the fact that she supposedly just called Alastor a 'bad boy.' Did she know who he was?

"Uh, I think upstairs." You shook your head to tear yourself from your thoughts. "Would you like me to go grab him?" You asked, regaining your composure. This girl,…woman, did not hesitate to invite herself inside, scurrying in like a bug, looking for shelter as she looked around as if expecting to find the 'bad boy' downstairs. 

"Is he working on the radio? Who are you? My name is Nifty!" She said, turning to look at you, grin never once faltering. You already needed a break; she was speaking too fast for you to possibly keep up. Nifty? What kind of name was that…? It took you a good few seconds before you could even mutter out your name. Even then, you weren't entirely sure she was listening as she almost immediately walked into the living room and began picking up random shit from the coffee table to look at. She looked like a child who was curious about their surroundings, moving from one thing to the next and unable to really hold a conversation. She kind of reminded you of a younger version of yourself, maybe a little more energized, though.

Thank God Alastor came downstairs because you were pretty sure you might have a seizure if you had to deal with her any longer.

He looked composed. Of course he did. But he acted like nothing had happened, and yet you were still stuck on that silly little inhale.

"Ah, Niffty! Darling!" Alastor exclaimed, opening his arms for a hug, which Niffty gladly accepted, running into his embrace. You watched as she hugged Alastor so tightly that you were worried his poor ribcage might collapse. "What brings you here today?" he asked, looking down at Nifty with his signature smile. It made you wonder, had you ever seen Alastor have a guy friend? They were all girls.

"My husband's home! Thought I'd stop by! He wants me out." Nifty remarked with a grin that was somehow wider than Alastors. It was nearly uncanny. You observed a slight flicker of something darker momentarily plague Alastors features before he resumed his cheerful attitude.

"Well, dear, make yourself at home!" Alastor gestured grandly to the house, which earned a giggle from the other as she did just that, collapsing onto the couch with a content sigh, stretching out like a cat after a nap. She acted a lot like someone who didn't get out of the house all that much. Even right now, she seemed all giddy to be in this house despite how..lackluster it was. Or maybe she just truly enjoyed Alastor's presence. You wouldn't blame her if it was that. You kind of awkwardly stood there, watching the whole conversation take place up until Alastor turned to you, regarding you like the friend he'd always treated you like.

"I'm assuming she introduced herself?" He asked, earning a nod in response as you peeled your eyes off of the petite woman to look over at Alastor. He simply patted Nifty's head, again, like she was a cat, and he was rewarding her for good behavior.--Scratch that (no pun intended). It was more like a child getting praised for using manners.

"So I burnt the grilled cheese." You blurted out, looking over to the poor pan that had endured lots of hardships since you moved in. Specifically, successful attempts at making edible food non-edible. Truly hard to accomplish.

"That's alright, I'll cook. After all, I'm sure Nifty would love some pancakes." As soon as Alastor said that, Nifty perked up. Was this some cheap Wattpad romance fanfic? Pancakes? Really? Oh, wait, wrong timeline. What's the Internet? You had no clue !

"Pancakes, pancakes, pancakes? Ooh! You always make them better than I do!" She beamed with her seemingly never-ending grin, her one eye filled with excitement and... not much more. She had pretty hazel eyes, but they were shallow. Were there even really any thoughts in that dome of hers? You had a feeling there were, but she just never showed it.

You sat down on a rocking chair, rather awkwardly at that, before looking over to Nifty. You had no time to even think of something to say because she was already talking again.

"So pretty lady, any drama?! I love drama!" The ginger asked excitedly, looking at you expectantly. You paused. Drama?

Another thing that reminded you of your younger self. Well, even yourself now. Drama was fun when you weren't involved in it.

"Drama?" you parroted, curious why that was the first thing she mentioned, especially after meeting you about five minutes ago.

"Yeahhhh," She snorted, "I don't have any other friends to talk to it about! Buuuut, it's so fun!" She complained, rolling her eyes with exaggerated exasperation before turning where she sat on the couch to face you more directly.

"So, local drama?" You asked, earning an eager nod from her. You hummed thoughtfully. You'd just gone to the hairdresser earlier this week, which was home to all of the best drama. Despite her out-of-the-blue request, you continued. "Well, I guess there was a petting pantry scandal recently.." You said with a small shrug, hoping that would satisfy her curiosity enough.

" Petting pantry ? What's that? Is it like a petting zoo??" She asked, eyes wide with an innocent and childlike sort of curiosity, eager to learn. You couldn't bring yourself to tell her what it meant. 

"..A house down St. Charles Avenue got a roach infestation.." You mumbled with an uncertain shrug at the lackluster ' drama ' you spilled.

Well, Nifty loved it.

She nearly jumped out of her seat. "Really? Where?" She clenched and unclenched her fists like she was going to..fight them? Squish them? You couldn't help but stifle a small laugh at that, raising a brow. She was joking, right? No. She was being serious.

"I don't remember the exact address." You explained, which she seemed to expect, but nonetheless let out an over-the-top sigh before collapsing back down face-first onto the couch, seemingly just for dramatics and the fun of it. Her hair got all messy from the impact, and when she eventually peeled her face off of the couch, the hair that once covered an eye was messed up and no longer properly combed to cover it.

You were about to question why she wanted to know where it was so badly but paused when you saw it.

Beneath that tuft of hair covering her left eye were splotches of black, blue, and purple over a swollen eye where the whites in it were slightly red and small cuts accompanied the nasty bruises. The concealer was poorly put on it, but it was wearing off. By how terrible it looked, you could have only imagined how painful merely touching it would be. It was jarring, even to you, the murderer. You bit back a gasp, trying not to react too much. You knew who did it, most likely anyway. By the look on Alastor's face when she mentioned 'husband' earlier, you could pretty easily come to that conclusion. This wasn't a rare occurrence, but it didn't make it any less disgusting.

"I can try and figure out the address." You said, seeming to successfully evade any possibility of her figuring out you noticed her supposed secret. Anger was usually easy to hide, but it was hard when you saw it was directed towards someone else. The council, and now this random girl's husband? (allegedly, you weren't about to get a defamation lawsuit).

Anyways, you wanted to kill the husband.

And the city council.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

During dinner, you actually really liked the pancakes. They were blueberry, and they were fucking delicious. Niffty wasn't exaggerating when she went on a 10-minute rant about how her 'bad boy' makes the best blueberry pancakes in town. While eating at the dining table, Nifty was mostly talking to Alastor, and Alastor listened intently with a small yet seemingly interested smile as she mumbled about not even God knows what. Her mouth was so full of pancakes that she looked like a chipmunk, yet Alastor understood every single word, having a full-on conversation with her. Despite his attention being focused on Niffty, when she found her mouth too stuffed to talk, Alastor would use the silence to look over to you and just stare with an unreadable expression. You wanted to bring it up but refrained, not wanting to make things awkward again. You focused on enjoying the pancakes. However, unfortunately for you, she liked them a little too much, so even though a dozen were made, you only got two, and Alastor only got one. The person who made the pancakes got one.  Nifty's lips and cheeks had blue all over them, and some chunks of blueberry stuck to her chin; it looked like a murder scene.

You called it the Blueberry Massacre of 1929.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

As the sun set, Niffty quickly said goodbye, running out to get back home. You hoped the running was from energy and not from being in a hurry. It was late, but this was a nice neighborhood, so you weren't worried. You watched through the window as she disappeared out of view before looking over to Alastor, who was cleaning the dishes, oddly silent.

"So, their husband?" You blurted out, and he nodded. It made you a little upset that even right now he kept a lazy grin. It was like he couldn't smile. "Why don't you kill him? You kill other people."

"It's not that easy." He simply replied, which wasn't enough.

"But she's your friend ."

"There's a very real chance I'll get caught. That, dear, is exactly why I suggest you don't either." 

You understood where he was coming from…You think. You knew the police had been on his ass before and even took him in for questioning before. But that didn't make you any less upset, despite knowing your logic wasn't sound. 

"You can't find some way to kill him?"

"I don't think he'll be around for much longer," Alastor spoke as if he was Nostradamus looking into the future. It was ominous; you were half expecting some mysterious background music to start playing.

"How do you know that?"

"Just focus on the plan tomorrow." He was good at switching topics. Because right when you were about to speak, he continued. "Or else I'll quiz you on your knowledge of said plans." It sounded more like a threat. Was it that obvious you didn't give a fuck about his plans to kill the city council?

"Yeah. Okay..." You replied reluctantly, watching him turn off the sink and dry off his hands.

Chapter Text

Okay not a real chapter BUT! I'm omw to New Orleans rn chat. Next chapters are gonna be so fire cuz I'm gonna actually be able to be in and see New Orleans (and learn about it's history)

ANYWAYS! if you wanna see photos of the trip follow my insta!

@Saturnzlovely

Love y'all

Chapter Text

"Well, look at you, you're the bee's knees!" Alastor exclaimed heartily. "You're sure to charm them looking like that; you could even charm me! Ha!"

You both were in the living room at 8pm getting ready to leave. To anyone, it looked like clothes for an evening out, but no, you were going to slaughter the city council. Perhaps this could be deemed a date in some twisted way, an evening out between two good friends who..share a hobby. Nevertheless, you had to dress fancy, you needed to 'impress' and 'charm' the city council in order to get inside. So you dressed in a cute little flapper dress, nothing too revealing, but enough to make others think you stumbled out of a bar. The flats, too. Alastor insisted on the flats instead of heels, 'They make it look like you've been dancing!' You weren't sure who would notice, but you didn't argue. After all, flats were much more comfortable than high heels. You also had the feather headband and pearl necklaces. It was flawless!

"So I get inside, and then I let you in the back door, right?" You asked as you both stepped outside and into the car. Alastor didn't hesitate to give a grandiose nod before opening the passenger seat door for you to his red Rolls Royce Phantom 1 . It shouldn't be a shock to you that he owns a fancy car, and oh . The seats are really comfortable, too. You've never been inside such a sexy car, and it probably cost more than all your organs do.

"Ready, darling ?" He looked over to you from the driver's seat with a lethargic grin. He must have known what he was doing when he said 'darling' like that.

"More than."

The city council was in the garden district, one of the upper-end areas in New Orleans. It was the kind of place that had fancy houses with abnormally big front yards. You could see why the French thought it was ridiculous. Who needs all that front yard anyway? It was telling of the city council's stupidity when Alastor stopped the car, and they were at the building. Which somehow had the biggest front yard of them all. It was gorgeous, but the plot was 40% front front lawn and only 60% building.

"Good luck~," Alastor said playfully as he waved you off, leaning against the wheel slightly. He looked like a high school girl about to talk about her crushes while painting her nails. You could only smile and roll your eyes.

"I don't need your luck." You declared, but your remarks held no malice, rather more tongue-in-cheek. You grabbed your purse before getting out of the car. You couldn't see the building that well from the night sky and the lack of streetlights; the only feeling of security you had right now was knowing you were in an upscale neighborhood. Lights illuminated from inside the white building; it looked almost like a miniature version of the white house, with grown-out vines and trees wrapping around and covering a chunk of the city hall.

You took a deep breath before forcing an unsteady walk as you stumbled to the front door, knocking, leaning against the wall and fabricating a need for support. You saw the light through the peephole go out as someone saw you before the door was quickly opened. The light inside nearly blinded you; it was indeed a very rich place with statues, paintings, and heavens to betsy; they had a couple pineapples and–

"Ma'am, Are you alright?" The man questioned; he had a look of worry on his face–one you could easily define as more phony than Roosevelt's policies. He looked old, probably in his 40s, and he wore a suit and was on the leaner side as he towered above you, a hideous goatee plaguing his wrinkled face.

"I-I just lost my way, I came from Bourbon Street, and wow, I think I drank too much." You mumbled, slurring your speech as you gave a goofy and intoxicated grin, even getting yourself to hiccup and nearly fall over again.

" Bourbon Street ..?" He raised a brow. "That's a 50-minute walk away, give or take." He stated, crossing his arms with a suspicious expression painting his saggy features.

God–So Alastor went to the finest details of wearing flats, but he couldn't even think about how it would be inconceivable for a drunk woman to walk 50 minutes in the dark. You would blame yourself, but Alastor was the one who insisted on making the plans.

Just then, like the Lord, or rather Satan, heard your prayer, another man arrived. He was much more burly and rather shaggy. He also wore a suit, but the buttons on the top were just gone. MIA. The lankier man seemed to flinch when the other man placed a hand on his shoulder rather strongly.

"What're you doing keeping her out here in the cold?" He questioned. Friend? Co-worker? He waved his hand, beckoning you inside, which you gladly accepted, fighting back a sigh of relief that you didn't have to explain the abnormally long walk you must have had to take to get here. "So what brings a pretty girl like you here? Are you lost?" He asked, taking my hand before placing a kiss on it. It felt so proper, and if you weren't aware of them being racist assholes, you may think he was doing this out of kindness. After all, he looked around 50, so it would be custom for his age to do so.

"I just got kinda nippy…I walked and walked and walked..and–" You made a scene of falling onto the couch once he led you to the living room. Two other men were there, both of them equally as captivated as they sipped tea. "I can't find my way home... Hahaha." You hiccuped again, slumping back on the couch, trying to ignore the way their eyes all collectively trailed down your body.

"Well, you've come to the right place. Let's introduce ourselves, shall we?" The beefy man asked, taking a seat next to you before offering you a cup of tea, which you declined politely. Eugh. Tea. They all introduced themselves, and you listened to absolutely none of it. For once in your life, you had a valid excuse to not pay attention–you were pretending to be drunk.

"You got anyone expecting you home, sweet thing?" One of them asked casually, exchanging knowing glances with the others as he took a sip from his teacup.

"H-huh? No.. No…” You trailed off, making sure you muttered the words out to really sell the act. Maybe you should be an actress… Only one step closer to sleeping with Gloria Swanson.

"You look like you're about to fall asleep there, eh?" The man sitting next to you said, resting a hand on your knee, which made you flinch. "Easy, easy, just being friendly." He laughed, his friends joining in too. You glanced down when you felt that same hand begin to slide up your thigh.

You found yourself frozen. Partially out of fear , but also because of some unrecognized feeling. The kind that makes your body lock into place, and it's not pleasant. It's frightening, and now his hands are on your skirt. He said something, but you didn't know what. You expected this, right? You looked up and saw another one getting up from the couch.

Quickly, you gagged like you might throw up, causing the four of them to just pause. "I- I think I'm gonna throw up." You said, "Bathroom where?" As soon as one of them quietly pointed to the direction, you got up and stumbled off. It was part of the plan to pretend you were about to throw up, then excuse yourself to let Alastor in through the back door. He was waiting on the other side of the screen door, back to the wall, and a duffle bag next to him. You swung open the door only to actually throw up in the bushes, coughing and shaking, which instantly caught Alastor's attention.

"Little bit too good of an actor, eh?" He tried to jest but quickly cut it out. He tried to pull some of your hair back so you wouldn't vomit on it, watching with a hint of concern in his expression. "What happened?" He asked, waiting patiently for you to answer as you continued to cough. After a painful couple of minutes of hacking up whatever was coming out, you took a moment to catch your breath. He rubbed some of the remaining fluids off your lip with his thumb before letting go of your hair. If you hadn't just puked your brains out, you might actually feel a little bashful, but you did just puke your brains out.

"I'm fine. It's fine." You insisted, taking a deep breath as you tried to ignore the foul taste in your mouth and the burning sensation on your thigh–you needed to clean it so it wasn't filthy anymore. You looked up to see Alastor's skeptical stare. "They just–well, one of them–put a hand on my leg." You explained, watching your friend's already tense smile tense even more. You weren't sure why a cold serial killer like him drew the line at that. But he most certainly did as the dark look in his eyes only got darker, almost turning red under the moonlight. You considered he might verbally express some form of irritation or even rage that you could clearly see in his eyes. However, he didn't

"Let's not keep them waiting. Shall we, Mon cher ?" Alastor held a hand out to you, which you took. Not just a piece of you, but rather, all of you felt grateful that he didn't mull over it. Heard but not judged or attempted to be soothed. However, something about the way his calloused hand grasped tightly onto yours told you he was feeling a little more violent as you both strode back inside and down the hallway. He unzipped the duffle bag, handing you a gun.

"You never said anything about a gun!" You whispered, looking at the...Well, rather terrifyingly loud piece of metal and machinery in your hands.

"Ah, you don't know how to use one?" Alastor cocked his head to the side, to which you sighed and shook your head.

"Well, I do. But they are rather loud–" You were cut off when a… Well. Color you surprised. You were cut off when Alastor placed the top of a baby bottle; those little pacifier parts were snapped into place over the muzzle of the pistol. "Are you kidding me..?"

"It muffles the noise; ready now?" Alastor asked, pulling out an entire axe. And there was more in the bag, too, but you didn't dare to look.

You sighed, nodding your head. The scalding sensation on your thigh continued, only spurring you on further as you gripped the gun tightly. The fear dissolved into anger, and to put it simply, you weren't aiming for a vital point first.

As you both snuck closer, their voices got less distant. They were talking about something like stock prices or being unable to wait for you to come back. Evil politician stuff. Thank goodness they were in close range; you hadn't used a gun since your father took you to the shooting range when you were little. Stepping out of hiding and almost immediately spotted, girlish screams erupted as you shot, aiming for one man's privates and hitting it, before only getting another man's leg. Given the close distance, one who wasn't injured ducked under the couch before trying to grab your leg and pull you down in hopes of knocking the gun out of your hand. Thankfully, your friend caught him just in time, and that hand was no longer attached to him.

White walls were painted red, and the rugs darkened with stains. One was limping with a wounded leg, which easily became Alastors next victim to the bludgeoning of his axe, all while leaving the guy with no hand to try and control the bleeding. Now, he'll never touch anyone again.

All in all, did you really have to get into details? The torturing and murder of racist predators are one of the most fun things one can do–however, it all goes by, unfortunately, so quickly! One died from a heart attack only 30 minutes in, and the rest died from blood loss. The longest-lasting one, that little warrior who clung to life, he lived for a full hour and a half. Each one witnessed their friends being tortured by Alastor in ways that made them feel like they might throw up again. Teeth being yanked out and nails being ripped off–you looked away most of it. Though you felt no need to tell him to cut it out. Rather, he just carved out some of the guy's organs. Really, really disturbing. You didn't overlook that, either.

By the end, the top buttons of his shirt were undone, his hair was disheveled, his glasses askew, and his hands and pants were positively drenched in blood, trickling onto the floor beneath him. You felt…Maybe a little traumatized. Maybe a little turned on?

“ Laissez les bon temps rouler ..” He murmured to himself, grinning widely with a proud look on his face as he took a couple steps back, admiring his work. You decided it would be best if you didn't look at the bodies. He turned to you, and he smiled so innocently. The same smile he gave you when he first met you at Vox's office and gave you his business card. So mysterious, yet magnetic. The two go hand in hand, you'd determined. "Shall we clean up?" He asked, holding out a hand to you, which you, for obvious reasons, did not accept.

"Do I need to?" You asked, looking down at your unstained dress to which he did too, humming softly. He held that virtuous and almost chaste smile. With his big eyes, he looked a lot like a baby deer. He resembled an innocent fawn who couldn't do anything wrong, despite the fact he was covered head to toe in blood. He could probably convince a handful of strangers that it was ketchup if he needed to.

"I suppose you don't!" He chuckled to himself, grasping his duffle bag before heading to the bathroom, humming some jazz tune you recall him listening to a couple days ago. He treated it like a mindfulness activity. You were both serial killers, but you were not the same, not by a bit. You killed out of anger; maybe it was mindfulness, but it was a release of stress and anger in the form of a short, quick death to others. Alastor… He liked to draw out their last breaths, keeping them alive until they died of blood loss or something else. Just not directly by the hands of him. You didn't have to be a psychologist to know he really, really loves it. He loves the amusement of hurting others, especially when they've done him wrong.

You let out a breath you didn't know you were holding in as you glimpsed over to the same door you came in through a couple hours ago. It must have been midnight by now, but you weren't fatigued. Not one bit. You'd never felt too apprehensive about murdering someone, but this was multiple people. And they weren't just 'nobodies' who others would forget about. They were the city council, for crying out loud! The police would definitely open an in-depth investigation, and that could be really bad if someone witnessed you two nearby–

But Alastor wasn't worried.

Yeah, Alastor wasn't worried. He seemed coolheaded, in fact. For once, you would admit you trusted a man. Because if he wasn't nervous, why should you be?

Afterward, the two of you were back in the car, quietly driving home with a bloodied duffle bag in the seat. You could only hear the rumbling of the car engine and the distant sounds of owls and trees rustling together in the wind. When you looked over to Alastor, he had a very slight smile on his face, a content one. He was always smiling, as if he had it stitched permanently into place. You wondered when, or if it was ever, authentic.

"Tired?" Alastor asked, looking over to you briefly as he acknowledged your staring. You couldn't care less if you got caught staring because, over the past 15 minutes, your previous lack of drowsiness broke as a wave of 'I want to hibernate' crashed over you. 

"Yes." You responded, the two of you sitting in stillness for a short while longer.

"The news said they arrested the 'Smiley face killer.' " He mentioned it out of the blue. You laughed, albeit it was a breathy and tired one. 

"You're kidding. They got the wrong guy?" You lifted a brow, smiling a bit.

"Everyone was getting rather uppity about the police finding the guy." He shrugged, his smile lifting into a grin. "So they snapped and made a hasty arrest."

"The police making a huge mistake? How surprising." You said with dry sarcasm as you leaned back against the headrest of your seat with a soft sigh. This dress was beginning to feel really uncomfortable, and you just wanted to get into your nightgown and pass out in bed.

"Oh, come on, dear! Don't be so discourteous to those who risk their lives every day for us!" He jested, making sure to make a grand gesture while he steered the wheel with the other. You actually giggled a bit at that, looking over at him briefly before shaking your head.

"Say, my dear, we should go out to the bar tomorrow. Have a celebratory drink. It'll even give you another justification to wear that lovely dress." He proposed, his eyes momentarily looking over you to try and gauge a reaction before looking back to the road. You smiled a genuine smile. You hadn't gone to a bar to sit back, relax, and enjoy a drink in a while; every time you went there, you were looking for targets.

"Depends on the bar."

Chapter Text

Right. So, going to bars, but not under the context of killing some inebriated idiot. (Unless Alastor did something, perhaps he would be the next 'drunk idiot.' Though, to be fair, he's generally just an idiot). After 24,932 words and 11 chapters of ever-growing tension between you and Alastor, he kind of… Sorta… Asked you on a date... Was it really a date? You couldn't help but overthink it. The possibilities of it just being a friendly stop to the pub or perhaps a co-worker outing (which would admittedly sting if such was the case).

You had contacted Rosie, of course. She was excited and happily gave you a whole new makeover-ish. It's like those dreams you've had since you were a little kid of being a flapper girl. Sure, It was dissimilar to the other kids on the playground who strived to be a princess or even the ones who were already talking about 'marrying a rich man.' You never understood it; quite frankly, you thought being a flapper girl was the cat's meow . Being unrestrained, dressed stylishly, and dancing with a glass of whiskey in one hand and some random guy's hand in the other.

Well, tonight, you were the flapper girl you always dreamt of being.

"So, sweetheart, what do you think?" Rosie spoke, smiling from ear to ear as she finished up by putting one last pearl necklace on you. Unlike the current makeup style that called for a lighter, more natural look, she went bold with black eyeliner and droopy lashes, which you gawked over. 4–no, 5 pearl necklaces on your neck, somewhat weighing you down because they were most definitely real. Your dress was the kind that hung loosely nearly down to your knees. It was red and embedded with black pears that lined the hem of the dress in intricate patterns, with red gloves that matched. A much-needed break from uncomfortable heels (and much more suitable for dancing), you had slippers on. To top it all off, Rosie put a feather in your hair, big enough to make a statement. She said it showed status, and it was much better than your other dress that she explained as "cheap."

"Thank you, Rosie… Wow." You muttered under your breath, staring in amazement. The little girl inside you was squealing with excitement.

"Of course, darling." She patted your back, looking at you through the mirror. Today, she was dressed like how she was the last time you saw her–a long maxi skirt with a blouse. Plum and Byzantium purple suited her ghostly complexion like bread and butter.

"What are you doing after this?" You inquired curiously, looking at her through the mirror.

"Ah, husband's funeral. " She said it so casually that it shocked you.

"Oh, I'm sorry for your loss," You muttered. You'd always presumed people wore black to funerals unless they were already looking for a new husband. Rosie's hand on your shoulder squeezed you gently, her smile expanding.

"Ah, don't worry your head about it, doll! People come and go, don't they?"

You sighed with exasperation, wondering if she did it. To be honest, you wouldn't be surprised. Alastor seems to attract the strangest people, and after meeting him and noticing his familiarity with Rosie… It was kind of like an unspoken realization. She wasn't necessarily hiding it. For Pete's sake, she was smiling .

"Oh, come on, frowning only gets you wrinkles, won't it?" she pointed out, smiling widely as she brought her hands to your cheeks and gently pinched them, tugging your lips up into an awkward smile.

"Did you get the smiling thing from him or the other way around?" You asked, flashing a genuine smile with a raised brow.

After having a makeover, li, Gloria Swanson and Betty Boop had a love child, and you loved it. Rather proudly, you walked down the stairs. You expected to see Alastor, but you didn't expect to see him pacing until he saw you, his smile widening.

"Ah, hello! Rosie, you did a terrific job! What a darling." He smiled widely. He wasn't dressed too differently. He usually dressed fancy. Today, he was wearing a white button-up, a red vest, and black slacks. He offered you an arm, which you gladly took.

"Oh, look at you two!" Rosie gushed. "If only there was something I had on hand to take a photo of you two with." She sighed, placing a hand on her hip. If there wasn't any context, it would look like she was a mother waving off her daughter to go to senior prom with that guy who is definitely bad news, but the mom doesn't know! She thinks he's fucking awesome and is flabbergasted when she gets knocked up on prom night…. Getting off track . However, soap operas admittedly had your attention lately. 

"Oh, Rosie, our memories are the best photographs," Alastor said. Of course, he wasn't the most fond of cameras or the mere concept of being filmed. Rosie and you thought it was more funny than it should be that he spoke like an old man at his own young age.

"I think one day you'll understand the importance of them." You stated, earning a tight-lipped yet genuine smile from Alastor.

"Well, let's not waste any more time, shall we? It's best to go when the jazz band is still playing there, hm?" Alastor suggested, guiding you to the door, which Rosie followed behind you two.

"Make sure not to get too drunk. That's Mimzy's job." Rosie said with a small, almost motherly smile as she put on her coat and grabbed her own car keys.

"Of course not–"

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

"That'll be two bits," Hajek said with a look of absolutely no amusement on his face. He kind of looked like a grumpy cat, you'd thought.

"25 dollars, or 25 cents?" Alastor questioned, a smug grin on his face. There were 3 empty glasses between you two. It wasn't your fault Alastor said he would pay for the good stuff–after all, nice alcohol was hard to come by. It was illegal, so bars generally supplied cheap moonshine that tasted like a bottle of saliva.

" Dollars ," Hajek grumbled, shooting you a look and to be honest, you weren't sure how you put up with him either. Alastor chuckled like he was the funniest man in the entire world, and you could only let out an exasperated sigh. You were glad Valentino wasn't here–you weren't exactly interested in running for your life a second time. But you were sure Valentino wasn't within 10 miles of the bar because Anthony wasn't shaking in his boots, looking like he might piss his pants at any given moment. (He was talking to Hajek instead, who was actually conversing with him. It looked personal).

"He's gonna upcharge you if you keep doing that." You stated, setting your elbow on the bar counter before resting your chin on the palm of your hand. Your eyes raked over Alastors features which were accentuated in the dim lighting of the bar. His upturned nose was always the first thing you saw, and then you saw his eyes–his perplexing eyes.

"Oh, Husker ? Hah, no. He wouldn't." Alastors grin drifted into a smirk. You could only wonder what was going on between the two, and maybe Alastor sensed your impending question because he quickly got up and offered a hand to you. "Well, perhaps a dance while we wait for our drinks?" You suppressed a scoff at his quick change in subject though it held no malice. You took his hand and hopped off the barstool, gasping when you were pulled close.

The last time you had danced with him, it was when you two were still getting to know each other. This time, his touches felt... A little more certain in a sense. He easily let his hands slide to your waist, his touch gentle yet secure. Internally, you thanked Rosie for lending you these dancing slippers. The lack of arch support on them irks you. But of course, Rosie has perfectly arched feet–yours are just broken ).

You gasped sharply as you were spun, though you could keep up a little easier this time–It didn't help that the three drinks you already had were weighing on your mind slightly. Alastor was also tipsy; oh, that much was obvious by how easily he laughed every time you almost fell. And your own tipsiness was shown by the way you laughed in return–half terrified of falling and dying and half enjoying being spun around. You felt weightless, and not just because of the liquor in your system.

"You're getting better, or is it just the alcohol?"

"What can I say? Makes me dance better." You grinned, squeezing his hand tightly. You lied and told yourself it was to make sure you didn't fall, but you liked the way he squeezed your hand back. "Or maybe it's the crowd that's making me step up my game." You added, referring to the other people dancing around you.

"Oh really?" He inquired wryly–though his voice held no actual venom. He dipped you as the jazz band reached its climax, the double bass and drums picking up. The floor vibrated beneath your feet with every beat and stomp of other dancers. You were glad everyone else was far too drunk to stop and laugh at your stumbling attempts to catch up with Alastor. He was either still a good dancer when tipsy, or he wasn't tipsy at all, and he just held his liquor well.

The mere thought didn't have a second to marinate in your mind; in fact, you were pretty sure your skull was being tossed around in your brain like jelly. But it was delightful, like an upside-down roller coaster–nauseating yet exciting. Much like the last dance you two had, you found yourself enjoying dip, turn, spin, and gentle 'shove' only to be caught.

As the song came to a slow end, Alastor pulled you closer. His hand was supposed to be on your waist—it was part of the dance—yet you couldn't help but shiver from the sensation nonetheless. And oh, that shiver simply evolved into a full-on shudder when he leaned closer, a grin plastered across his face.

"Struggling to hold your liquor already, Mon Cher ?" He spoke in a low whisper as if his words were only meant for your ears. You swallowed the nonexistent lump in your throat. He was doing this on purpose, right? Your grip on his shoulder instinctively tightened; he wasn't expecting that. Or perhaps he took it as a sign to back away because he did, instead turning his attention to the bar counter where the drinks sat. " Ah ! Looks like the drinks are ready; shall we?" He didn't wait for a reply of any kind–he often didn't. You'd gotten used to his rhetorical questions, simply following as he led you back to your seat.

Your joints thanked you very much when you sat down and even more when you took a sip of the drink. It was more like a cocktail of sorts with a fruity taste. The drink itself looked reddish, like blood. That may be why Alastor liked it so much.

You glanced over to Alastor while sipping your drink. He was zoned out, staring at his reflection in the crimson liquid with a thoughtful and almost soft expression on his face. You liked it when he zoned out. You liked the way his lips shut in a thin yet relaxed smile and how his eyelids dropped slightly. Even with the next song blaring throughout the bar and drunken chatter, he held a peace. Somewhere in those eyes of his, somewhere. Here you were again, comparing him to the likes of a deer. Perhaps he wasn't all that bad. Maybe there was a light within him, a virtue and softness akin to a deer. Something that only you held the key to.

That would be nice…

"You okay?" You finally interrupted him from his thoughts. He immediately snapped out of it, his smile widening again as he looked at you, tilting his head slightly.

"Of course I am!" He grabbed his glass, clinking it against yours before taking a generous sip while you, again, in awe, watched him not flinch a bit. You looked down at your own glass amongst the three others.

This is the last drink–

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

"And then–And then you won't believe what happens next…" You trailed off dramatically, expecting some sort of drumroll. Your head was beating like a drum already–that was enough.

"What? What happened??" Alastor was practically at the edge of his seat. Literally, he was leaning forward, looking at you with this childish anticipation for you to continue your story. You stopped at 5 drinks, Alastor? He stopped at 7. But given his height, he was only about as intoxicated as you. It was already 3am, and the bar was mostly empty despite how it usually is. If you were sober enough, you might theorize that Anthony shooting some guy in the leg for 'disrespecting the family' was enough to scare everyone off.

But that didn't matter.

"Well, let's just say I performed my first castration ." You smirked and crossed your arms, leaning back against the counter. You felt like a badass in that moment, especially when Alastor's jaw nearly dropped, despite the whole thing being nothing short of anticlimactic in his world of… serial killing and stuff.

"You did?  So what? Did you keep it as a souvenir?" Alastor questioned, his head tilting slightly. You could only laugh, finding that absolutely hilarious tenfold given your inebriation.

"In what?? A jar? No. They're weird looking, I don't wanna use it as house decoration!" You exclaimed in between laughter. (Thank goodness there wasn't anyone around except for Hajek and Anthony, who didn't care a single bit. You were being particularly… loose-tongued).

"You've got a point there, Mon amour." He had this goofy grin on his face as he studied you very closely. His body weight was shifting, making him wobble around a bit. You didn't notice, not even when he slowly inched closer–your mind simply told you he was very invested in your stories. "So you never keep eyes or anything?"

You tapped your chin thoughtfully for a moment. Though you weren't really thinking, you couldn't, not when your mind was swirling from the alcohol. "I wouldn't know how to maintain them… Or extract them properly." You said in a slurred tone that Alastor could somehow understand.

"I could teach you," he mumbled in response. He was leaning forward from his stool, and only then did you realize his body weight had shifted to hover right over yours. His eyes were heavy-lidded, and he was looking at your own eyes.

"You could?" You tilted your head curiously. Your drunken state was slowly catching up to the sudden close proximity, especially as he drew so near you could feel his warm breath against your lips. You could almost hear the thumping of your heart in your ears as you found yourself leaning a bit closer.

Alcohol was funny. It could so easily take away any inhibitions, anxiety, and second thoughts. It made you raw. It exposed you for who you are and how you truly felt.

And you felt like you wanted to kiss him.

So you did.

You fluttered your eyes shut and pressed your lips against his, your hesitancy quickly melting away as he leaned closer. It was just lips against lips, but it felt like more than enough for that moment. His lips were soft; he definitely used chapstick. They felt like a fuse to your match, setting you alight and making your whole body burn up. You placed a hesitant hand on his shoulder, and he placed one on your shoulder. Regardless of the alcohol in both of you guys' bloodstreams, anxiety bristled beneath the surface. Hesitancy and nerves were all but forgotten, instead merely hushed by the alcohol and pent-up tension between you two, finally freeing itself from its bounds.

This was sufficient, you thought.

He pulled away just as you did.

It felt so cliche to think, like a stereotypical romance novel. But it was true how the world felt like it withered away. There was just him, looking at you. Somewhere between that eye contact, you'd placed a hand on his cheek. You wondered if it was warm from being flustered or the alcohol. You decided it must be both.

Chapter Text

You vaguely remembered Rosie coming to pick you up. How she knew that you and Alastor were ossified beyond belief is a mystery to this day… (You convinced yourself it was simply motherly instincts).

Your head was throbbing like someone just hid your skull with a metal bat, and your limbs felt achy like you were running a high fever. But nope, you were just hungover. It had been a while since you'd gotten so drunk, so your body wasn't necessarily handling the alcohol well after so long. You felt boneless as you sat up, letting out an unhappy groan as you blinked away the sleep. You were in your own bed, that's the most important part. You looked over to the clock; 10am.

Momentarily, you panicked, but then you remembered—there was no work today. Thank God or whoever was watching over you for that. You weren't sure if you could get a single page of scripts done without a bottle of ergotamine and at least three cups of coffee.

You let out a heavy sigh, collapsing back onto the bed and rolling onto your side. Hangovers. So much fun. This was probably just the perks of being a young adult though. You shut your eyes, feeling your mind begin to wander off to dreamland again. Just to sleep off this headache and rest up…

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

No.

….Wait.

If you had the strength to, you probably would have sat up in a dramatic fashion to gain your bearings–but you simply stayed still. Though you had an iron grip on your sheets and your already achy muscles drew tense as last night's memories came flooding back—----. You rolled over onto your back, staring at the ceiling as you rewind and replayed that moment over and over again.

The kiss you shared was simple and charming, practically oozing with cheesy romance characteristics. It was a drunken confession of requited love. You never understood how, in the movies, people seemed to wake up after getting drunk, remember a kiss, and then freak out and avoid the person. You'd always wondered why they don't just communicate and talk it out.

Now you understand

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

It was awkward.

So incredibly awkward.

You sat there, silently staring at him for a bit. He was looking back at you, too, seeming just as at a loss for words as you were. All you could think was how badly you wanted to kiss him again right now…

You quickly sat up, earning a flinch from Alastor. "I'm uh… gonna go to the grocery store." You mumbled quietly enough you were surprised he even heard you. His finger twitched, lips momentarily parting as if he was going to say something–but he didn't.

"Have fun." He muttered out a shy reply. It felt so odd to see him this awkward and…Nervous? You didn't know what to say. God, you didn't know what to say… So you just nodded, sliding out of your chair and wincing at the sound of the wood screeching against the floor. The noise cut through the silence like a dagger, causing you to pause a second for whatever reason before continuing to walk fast to the door.

You felt like if you stayed a moment longer in this room, you might actually die.

So, without hesitation, you slid on your coat, grabbed the keys and your purse, and headed out the door. Almost immediately, the whiff of the autumn air soothed not only your throbbing headache but the simmering nausea from that…Less than ideal encounter. You were already pondering on how you might go about the inevitable discussion sooner or later; why that happened, and what did that make you? In all honesty, you weren't sure what you wanted. Questions could only stack on top of each other in your mind throughout the entire walk to the grocery store.

By the time you got there, you couldn't feel your nose or the tips of your ears. In short, you regretted not bringing a beanie to keep at least your ears warm. Thankfully, the local store was one of those ritzy places and had heaters. It was in a nice neighborhood, after all. Even the floors were that nice shiny marble—the kind you remember seeing in Vincent's office… Eugh…

You pulled out a shopping cart. You'd been shopping here for a while, its where you did all the grocery shopping for the household. However, you would never get used to how nicely the cart rolled over the smooth tiling–it just tingled your brain in all the right way. Even the produce aisle had sprinklers that made the vegetables look all fresh and juicy.

Despite the impending doom of relationship conversations and the unlikely yet possibly dreaded conflict–fancy grocery stores made you happy.

So you were just humming some of the classical music on the speakers when you paused. Down in the chip aisle, a girl. You squinted, (you really needed to go to an optometrist). You didn't even have to stare awkwardly trying to figure out who that was for a long time because she quickly noticed you and ran over, momentarily abandoning her grocery cart.

"Hello, hello!" Nifty ran up to you, smiling widely. She was in her typical housewife attire, and one eye was still covered by hair. You wondered if she still had that bruise or perhaps a newer and nastier one.

"Hey Nifty," you said with a small smile. Your inner struggles were as clear as the marble flooring, but Nifty was about as clueless as a pet hamster.

"How are you??" Her smile never wavered, polite as ever.

"I'm doing well...Yeah. How are you?" You asked, rolling the shopping cart towards her own shopping cart so she wouldn't leave it unoccupied for too long. One negative thing about these swanky places was the unreasonably uptight and snobbish staff. One time, you accidentally dropped an apple while bagging it, and about 5 employees shot you nasty glares. Could they be any less obvious? You shook your head, looking back over to Nifty, who was hesitant to reply as she fidgeted with the sleeves of her long-sleeve dress.

" Good ." She said, her smile faltering. It was just for a second, but it was disorienting nonetheless. She grabbed a hold of her cart again, her smile coming back full force. "Silly hubby issues, know?"

"No…Not really." You mumbled. Thank God you didn't know. You could never get married, not in a million years. You looked back down to her sleeves, then back up to her face. Alastor told you not to. Not to mess with her husband; that would be a bad idea. But you wanted to kill him. You wanted to kill him so bad. "Where is he?" You asked, looking down at your shopping cart and giving the illusion that you were looking over your items instead of brewing a murder plan in your head.

"Home! He's sleeping!" She smiled more widely, putting some more stuff in her cart. "I think I'm going to hit the cafe after this! I haven't gone in…wow. Years!" She snickered, looking over to you and tilting her head slightly. "Care to join me?"

"Oh… Possibly." You peered over to her eerily wide smile. You honestly never thought her husband would let her go anywhere but a grocery store–it still didn't make you wanna kill him any less. "What cafe?"

"Down at Napoleon! I miss their coffee!!" Nifty exclaimed. She always seemed caffeinated, jumping off the walls and exuding an energy you haven't felt since you were 8 on Christmas morning. If it turned out that she wasn't downing 10 shots of espresso every morning, and this was how she acted normally? You would be scared to be within 10 feet of her after a cup of joe.

"On Chartres Street? That's a while away; are you planning to take the bus?"

"Bus?" She paused, thinking for a second before panicking. "I can't take the bus!" She threw her hands in the air in a dramatic fashion, making you flinch at the sudden movement.

"Why not?" You questioned with a raised brow, smiling a bit. You definitely found her amusing but also endearing in a way. Sometimes, it was hard to believe this was a grown woman.

"Well, it's scary." She stated that it was obvious. "I can just walk!"

You would have offered to guilt-trip Alastor into driving her there, but…You didn't want to talk to him right now. Yes, you were avoiding him… At least for the day. To clear your mind and have some one-on-one time without the urge to kiss him again… You shook the thoughts from your head.

"Walk? That's like 50 minutes at least, and it's cold outside." You replied, looking around the chip aisle, finding something you actually needed an putting it in your cart. Nifty simply continued.

"It is pretty could..Eugh…” She shivered at the mere thought, wrapping her already frail arms around herself. You simply looked over to her and sighed.

"I would love to walk over there with you on a…Warmer day." You grabbed at least 5 bags of Wise potato chips to binge eat at 2am while reading romance novels from the library that have raunchy scenes in them that somehow went unseen by the rich and uptight library–all to get your mind off of current interpersonal and worldwide struggles. And then, after a couple hours, look at the empty chip bag in shame while the owl on the bag stares at you with hatred and calls you a fat loser.

"Really?!" Nifty beamed, hands clasped together as if she was praying to you. You smiled a bit, laughing.

"Of course." 

You got a bag of coffee during the rest of your shopping. Seeing Nifty's dejected look when you mentioned it being far too cold to walk to the store made you feel kind of sad. Especially since it was the only time her husband even let her go outside. So you decided to bring your own coffee to her house. After all, you were fairly good at making coffee. She even lived down the block, so you could make two cups and surprise her at her front door. You were sure it would make her happy. 

You remembered during The Blueberry Massacre of 1929 Nifty mumbling something about repainting their house blue too; so you wouldn't even have to ask Alastor for her address. (You decided not to confront the loopholes and shortcuts your brain was taking not to talk to him). Today was to spend time with Nifty, tonight was The Potato Chip Tragedy of 1929. Yeah, that's right. You had a hot date with a bag of potato chips and a raunchy romance book. So what?

Ahem, anyway.

You hoped she liked sweet coffee. You assumed she did, given her personality. You were going to make your personal special; sweet tooth coffee. It still had the bitterness, but it had a noticeable sweet taste that melted on your tongue and seeped into your gums in a satisfying way. It was coffee, obviously, but it had milk, sugar, caramel, and chocolate sauce added to it. You avoided the colossal mistake that was the mere conception of creamer. Something so diabolical and certainly put on this earth by Satan himself.

You didn't run into or even see Alastor once while making the coffee. You assumed he was either invested in his work or thinking about last night. You assumed the first idea was a result of the second one. He really could be so… Human sometimes.

You quickly grabbed the two cups of coffee. You'd run your hand under scalding hot water while cleaning dishes enough times for the burning sensation of the mug on your fingertips to feel like nothing but a tickle . You quickly slid on your coat and headed out the door to surprise Nifty and hopefully get another one of those smiles that you were beginning to find contagious. You truly understood why Alastor kept her around, even if her energy sucked all the energy out of you. Hopefully, the coffee would help you bounce all over the place from one subject to the next, an entirely unrelated subject.

You knew it was her house when you stopped at it, because It was only a bit away and it was freshly painted blue. All of the other houses sticked to traditional light yellows, browns, and other plain colors. The navy blue and white trim of the victorian style house made it stick out from all the other places. You couldn't decide if you loved it, or hated it.

You wasted no time stepping up to the front door and carefully moving to hold both mugs in one hand before knocking on the door and waiting for an answer.

Nothing.

For 5 minutes, at least. You heard the faint noise of rustling and then the sound of something hitting the floor and breaking, it sounded like glass. You paused, going silent for a second to listen more.

"Hello?" You questioned, raising your voice in hopes for the other side to hear. You were starting to worry that Nifty had really gotten it this time, but after a minute of silence, your worries were eased a bit.

"Yes, one second!!" Nifty said from the other side, earning a sigh from you. Though her antsy tone and shaky voice made you a bit suspicious. You shifted on your heels, waiting for about 3 more minutes, cut up by more sounds of rustling and what sounded like something dragging against a wooden floor.

Now you were definitely suspicious, and a little worried. You set the coffee down on the front porch table before stepping down from the steps and walking through the small yard, careful to not step on any of the well-maintained flowers as you went up to the window. The Thick royal blue curtains made it impossibly hard to see inside, multiplied by your withering sense of vision.

You could only imagine how crazy you looked in someone's front yard and pressed up against their window trying to look inside.

No joke, you were so close to the window your hot breath was forming condensation.

However, that was the least of your worries. Most of your worries were getting a closer look and then pausing when you saw a trail of smeared blood across the wooden flooring. It was a path that led to a body that wasn't moving a bit, eyes open and empty, and body limp. You could barely see the extent of his injuries, but his chest was a bloody mess. Your own eyes followed up the body to the woman dragging him; Nifty. Her hands were smudged with blood, attempting to drag the man and making very slow progress. The sight immediately made you still. No matter how many gruesome scenes you witness, seeing one without the prior knowledge you were about to see one was particularly unsettling. No

How many killers live in New Orleans???

That was the first thought that came to mind.

And why do I keep running into them???

That was the second thought.

It took you a concerningly little amount of time to regain your composure, getting away from the window and promptly walking back up the porch steps. You hesitated, looking down to the coffee and then back to the door. You had the overwhelming feeling that the man was possibly her husband; if so, you felt no remorse. Perhaps even happiness. Then again, you were slightly worried for your own safety. What if she snapped? You could be her next target. After all, you don't know her on the level you would like to before offering to help hide a body.

You swallowed any ounce of self-doubt and knocked on the door again, a little harder this time. "Nifty?" You started only to pause, trying to figure out what exactly to say. "I'm not going to call the police." You stated, immediately hearing all sounds from the other side stop with a thump . You continued, "Uh. Can we talk?" It was slightly awkward. You wondered what Alastor would do in this situation… He would probably play it cool like he always does. Maybe throw in some fancy words and wear that stupid grin of his.

You were surprised at how fast the door opened, flinching slightly as a hand pulled you in before shutting the door. You were about to say something about the coffee but stopped yourself. It probably wasn't the right time anyway. Additionally, Nifty looked more jittery than usual and immediately began to anxiously pace around the room.

"I don't know what to do!" She exclaimed almost immediately. First time killing, you assumed. She had this sort of crazed look in her eyes that was borderline hysterical. You got the impression that she didn't regret it one bit, but definitely feared any sense of punishment.

"Who.." You looked over again to see the body, but more closely this time. It was definitely a guy, as you had suspected. He was sporting the biggest dad bod you had ever seen, with a button-up on that looked like it was choking his neck from how constricting it seemed. His pants were small, too. The most noticeable part was the sheer amount of stab wounds on his chest. You leaned over his body a bit, squinting. You were fairly sure you could see bones and a heart. "–Who is that?" You'd asked, wanting to be sure.

"My husband." She said in a suddenly quiet tone, looking down at the body. When your eyes met hers, you could have sworn you saw the killing happen in them over and over again until she snapped out of it and looked up to you, her momentarily calm expression breaking out into a full-on grin, making you shiver slightly. "He was being a roach, so I went stab stab stab !" She beamed happily, tilting her head with a childlike curiousness as she observed your slightly unnerved expression.

Despite your…Visible unease, you felt proud in some twisted sense. She got to him before you did and ended the abuse on her own–but then again, she made herself a criminal. You looked back down to the lifeless corpse, taking a moment before responding.

"How do you plan on hiding it?"

"Let the bugs in the basement eat him!" She smiled widely, seeming genuinely excited by the impossible idea. You bit your cheek, letting out a deep breath. You didn't blame her; after your first kill, you assumed that maybe crows or something would eat the body before it was found. It was a way of the adrenaline and spike of anxiety in your mind trying to make up conclusions for questions you didn't have logical answers to.

"I dont wanna ruin your…dreams, but I don't think that is going to work." You said honestly, tapping your foot as you thought about how to get rid of the body. Alastor had told you it was the first important step before worrying about how to cover the tracks. You quickly saw Nifty's dejected look and decided to continue speaking, "What I'm trying to say is I can get rid of it for you."

"Really?! You'd do that?? For me?" Nifty was quick to respond–a sparkle in her eyes as she looked up to you. Besides the oddity of the situation, like many other unlikely and strange ones you've encountered lately–you smiled a bit.

"Yeah. It's not a problem." You spoke, looking down at the body. That was a lie. It would indeed be a problem to carry a corpse that appeared to be the shape and weight of 10 potato sacs–but perseverance was strength. Even if it gave you a sore back and pulled a muscle or too.

Indeed, it turned out to be a bit of a problem. You didn't drive, and in order to get rid of a body, you generally needed to take it to a separate location. So, in the end, you told Nifty you would be back in a couple of hours and walked back home, shoving your nerves to the back of your mind before walking inside. You'd need to inquire, of all people, Alastor for help. At least you can say you didn't go against his wishes and kill him–Nifty did! You walked upstairs to his study, where you assumed he most likely was sequestered, probably reading an unholy about of murder mysteries and classic literature or focusing on work.

Just immediately ask for help from Nifty's husband. Thats it. Don't give him a single second to bring up last night!

You opened the door, "Alastor, me and Nifty need help disposing of her husband's body. She killed him, it's messy, and I can't do it alone." You said so quickly that Alastor was flabbergasted. He looked up at you through his reading glasses, setting down his book. The surprise on his face overwhelmed any anxiety or even a single thought of last night.

"You're suggesting that Nifty killed her husband?" Alastor questioned with a raised brow, half-expecting it to be some unfunny joke as his lips twitched into a momentary smile.

"Most definitely. She's going between freaking out, being calm, and laughing about it." You said with slight concern. But Alastor didn't share the same sentiment at all, his lips curling into a full-on grin. Amusement painted his features as he took off his glasses and set them aside.

"You don't say? My, she's truly lost it, hasn't she?" He stifled a chuckle, getting up and stretching slightly. "Can't say I'm surprised; she's been practicing stabbing those blueberry pancakes. It was only a matter of time!"

"Right." You sighed, smiling a bit, though, as you looked over his slightly disheveled appearance. You wondered if he had been thinking about last night as much as you had, and maybe it affected him more. You wanted to bring it up right now. When the mood felt lighthearted, and the sun was peeking through the window in his study just right and making it feel warm and his features look more gentle. You wanted to express your lack of regret and how you wanted to do it again.

"Let's not keep that body waiting! The weather is a little too…" Alastor trailed off, looking out the window. It indeed was rather breezy, "Drafty." Drafty was an understatement. "We'll move him to our basement! Then how about dinner? Ah, and can you please water the succulents near the window?" He looked at you expectantly, his eyes on yours for much longer than necessary. He was so casual about it, as if nothing happened last night. 

"Right. I'll make something." You muttered before clearing your throat. You hated how his gaze could make you feel shy all of a sudden like he was putting some sort of curse on you. 

You felt like he registered your shyness just by the way his demeanor shifted by a fraction. But before anything else could be uttered, he was waving goodbye and off to transport the body. You watched him walk down the hallway, biting your lip. Fuck . You decided to wait until he left before going downstairs to cook something.

Guess what you were gonna make?

Grilled cheese, Idiot. Idiot sandwich. Idiot, you for getting all timid around him.

Butter, bread, cheese, a dramatization of deep despair from a simple kiss… Perfect grilled cheese. If it's not grilled, do they call it a cheese sandwich, then?

It took a considerably longer amount of time for even Alastor to haul that body into his trunk, drive back, and then drag the trash back with the body back inside and toss him into the basement carelessly. You'd never seen him sweating so much, especially over something he seemed to so easily do, which was carrying and disposing of bodies. 

After a very long minute of panting, Alastor looked over to see the grilled cheese on the dinner table, ready and you sitting there. He smiled a toothy smile, walking over to the table and sitting down.

"Hello, my dear!" He spoke so casually. You could tell he was hoping to get out of the inevitable, but you weren't going to let him (even though you wanted to avoid it, too). Sometimes, you had to be an adult.

"Last night." You started, making him nearly choke on his grilled cheese, quickly drinking some water to down it. He cleared his throat before speaking.

"Ah, last night." He muttered, setting down his grilled cheese. You felt a bit of nausea at the thought that he may actually regret it–his expression seemed more unwilling to speak on it than you had anticipated or wished. You decided to just be forward about it.

"Do you regret it..?" You asked, your fingers nervously drumming against the table as you took any excuse to look outside the window or down at your food instead of at him. When your eyes did pass by him, he looked rather…nervous? Flustered?

"That's… Well, that's a loaded question ." He swallowed the lump in his throat, looking up at you and seeing the anxiety plastered over your face. "Not necessarily, no." That was something; at least it wasn't a clear 'yes.' You hoped it was just his own way to try and salvage dignity or something, but another part worried he was simply faking kindness.

"I don't." You said bluntly, with confidence you didn't know you could exude. But it felt so relieving to get it off your chest, and slightly rewarding as you heard the shaky breath he let out and heard the way his fingers began drumming against the table too.

"I see." Alastor cleared his throat again, taking the excuse to take another bite of his food, the quiet chewing filling up the increasingly tense silence. He wasn't contributing to the conversation, and that was already racking up your nerves to the point where you felt like you might implode from anxiety. "No, I don't regret it." He added after a shared silence. You looked up to him, trying to see the truth in his eyes–you didn't. But you didn't see a lie in them either. The monotonous quality of his voice didn't help either, but he was looking at you expectantly for a reply.

"That's… That's good." You mumbled, looking back down to your food. 

Did you want to date him? No, not really. Not in a normal way, at least. You never saw long walks on the beach with him or getting married one day. You definitely didn't see a future family, either. You envisioned hiding bodies with him and spending late nights in the living room just talking… You liked talking to Alastor. You bit your cheek, taking a shaky breath before speaking again.

"What did you do today?" You asked, trying to make things feel remotely normal again. Alastor seemed to jump at the opportunity to make things even a teeny tiny bit less awkward.

"Well, I read and worked on some scripts. And you? You must've been rather wrapped up in Nifty and her shenanigans today."

You let out a breathless laugh. "Yeah. Wow, she's a bit of a handful." You said, not mentioning how unnerving you truly found her at times. You looked up to Alastor, watching him wipe the crumbs of bread off his chin with a napkin. He had these unnaturally perfect table manners, even when it was just you two. It was just one of the things you found flattering about him. You couldn't help but wonder what, if anything, he found charming about you.

That night, you were too exhausted to pop open that bag of potato chips and read smut. You passed out almost immediately and had wet dreams of…

Gloria Swanson. (Again and…obviously).

Chapter Text

To be quite frank, you didn't even realize what day it was. It wasn't until you heard the loud cracking of fireworks booming in the sky that your mind finally caught up to the date. New years…Eve? Day? You checked the clock on your desk, and it was 10pm. You never really celebrated holidays often. The last time you celebrated Christmas, you were 10 and got food stamps as a gift, so you didn't even really realize when the jolly old Christian holiday rolled around. Partially because you could really lack the context clues that suggested the holiday was even around. Especially given the… myriad of things that have happened and made it increasingly difficult to even think about the month, let alone a holiday.

The whole Nifty incident was 4 days ago, and you'd been meaning to check on her while…partially holding back. You'd gotten caught up in work, so you never had the chance. Writing scripts and the…tiny bit tense radio show you and Alastor did yesterday. He hadn't really… left the house, per se. So you were almost certain the decaying body of Nifty's husband was down there…rotting. It irked you to even think about it, so you tried to distract yourself with your work again.

Creeeeeaaaak

You seriously had to get that door fixed…

You peered up from your book and saw none other than Alastor holding two cups with a lazy smile on his face. His hair was kind of ruffled and his buttons on his red vest undone. "Hello dear," He spoke up with his usual polite attitude, walking over to set a mug in front of you on your desk. It was one of his cheesy ones with a dad joke on it ' depresso espresso' . It was…incredibly, diabolically, terrible.

"Is it poisoned?" You smiled a bit, looking up at him as you picked up the warm mug to soothe your frozen, numb hands. Alastor only grinned, setting his own mug down and leaning against the desk slightly, looking down at you.

"Mm, is that really a way to kick off the new year?"

"Right, you're trying to kill me with your terrible choices in mugs." You took a sip and nearly ascended to heaven from how good it tasted ; hot chocolate. You couldn't remember the last time you had it , it must have been years ago. The ancient taste flooding your taste buds and …caressing them with their warmth… "This is really good .. "

"Thank you! I made it with love~!" He had that proud grin stretched across his features. His face was not unlike a smug middle schooler, but to be fair, his smug face always looking fairly .. Silly. On purpose, you were pretty sure.

"No wonder it tastes so sweet." You rolled your eyes, smiling nonetheless as you took another sip. Definitely not poisoned, despite the slight concern about how Alastor was just…watching you.

"Do you celebrate New Year often? After all, we are starting a new decade. It's fairly monumental!" Alastor exclaimed. He was definitely more animated and excited about this. It didn't strike you as odd, though; you weren't exactly sure how the smallest things got him all jumpy and excited. Was he just playing it up at this point?

"I just didn't think we would since we didn't even mention Christmas or Thanksgiving." You shrugged, giving your friend your full attention, forgetting about your script. You had already worked ahead, so it was fairly useless to keep typing away if you didn't need to.

"Ah, yes! The Christian holiday mainly garnered towards children, and the other holiday, founded on colonization!"

"And I thought I could be a bummer." You smiled a bit more, setting your mug down, "What's with the disheveled appearance?"

"Eh, had to work on some of the plants in the backyard." He sighed, running a hand through his slightly sweaty hair.

"I could have helped, know." You said with a playful pout, earning a dramatic eye roll from Alastor.

"Darling, you kill every plant you touch. I'm convinced you're infected with some rare disease."

You were about to quip back with something..You weren't sure what, but something super cool. But you were interrupted when the doorbell rang downstairs, making the two of you pause. It was definitely rare to have unexpected guests. Rosie would never come without saying so in advance, and Niffty was probably fast asleep by now. Otherwise, even the mailman didn't ring the doorbell, so least to say, it was intriguing. But Alastor looked a little skeptical, leaning back and straightening his hair to look a bit presentable, buttoning up his top. Admittedly, you already kinda missed his messy look.

"I can get that," You got up and set your mug down, taking one last shameless glance at Alastor. "You look like you just wrestled a bear." That earned a slight smile from him.

"Be my guest, but you dont know how to shoo off a missionary like I do ." He said, watching quietly as you walked off, giving him a dismissive wave. Getting missionaries to go away was fairly easy , just say 'go away' then shut the door. It might burn a bit if they start saying prayer, but thats only because you're a sinner. You didn't really have grave forgiveness or the Lord in your life; you didn't even really think he existed.

When you opened the door, it was a police officer with his hands resting on his utility belt. He was tall, around 6" 4, and rather lean. But you could see the veins practically bulging on his hands. And the blonde hair and blue eyes only further fueled your worst nightmare.

Maybe now was the time to start praying to the Lord…

You straightened your posture, offering a smile despite your impending anxiety. You'd only talked to officers a couple times in life, and thats simply because you had to steal for food when you were little. Now? Now you felt anxious like a little kid all over again. "Hello sir, can I help you?" You greeted him, surprised at how even you kept your voice .

"Yes actually." His voice was firm and his expression was rock hard. "May I come in?" You were so nervous, you jumped when you heard another firework go off in the background.

"Well, apologies... This isn't really my house .. " You kept your own voice steady. Showing anxiety meant showing weakness. He's a police officer right? You shouldn't be scared to show 'weakness' or anxiety, right? Not when its a man who has authority over you. It's terrifying.

"Right. I came here to see you and Alastor. I was under the assumption you two lived together?" He inquired, and you gave yourself a second to calmly respond.

"Yeah. Yes, sir, we do." You let out a small breath you didn't know you were holding. Your palms felt all sweaty, Mom's spaghetti and you couldn't help but occasionally glance to the stairs, hoping Alastor would come down. He knew how to deal with police; he said he'd spoken to them before.

"What's your relationship with him?"

"Roommates.. Well, friends, I would argue." You stumbled over your words a bit, earning a raised brow. Just then, Alastor came downstairs looking completely normal with his signature wide and charming smile.

"Ah, hello! I assume you're speaking to my wife?" Alastor spoke gleefully, putting a hand on your shoulder and pulling you close in an act of affection. Fuck , you couldn't even shoot him a glare. Wife? Really ? Why would he say, wife? Or anything at all?

Now the cop was suspicious and confused. "This young lady said you two were friends or roommates." He mentioned, even pointing to you. He had his chest puffed out in a subconscious act of dominance over the situation. However, Alastor either didn't notice it or didn't care because he stayed completely neutral.

"I would argue marriage is just another form of friendship!" Alastor shot back, continuing to smile widely and even a small twinkle in his eye.

"Mhm." The officer wasn't entirely convinced. "May I come in?"

"Of course, of course! Make yourself at home!" Alastor stepped aside so he could come in, which Mr. stupid dumb cop did. You thought he was stupid and dumb, at least… Alastor, with his hand still on your shoulder, led you to the couch and sat you next to him, your legs touching. He was so good at feigning nonchalance like this was an everyday occurrence. Or maybe he just didn't have any genuine reaction to the close proximity he put you two in.

The officer didn't sit , instead he paced around, going in a roundabout circle around the couch like a predator to prey. "You must really like plants ." He said, observing the greenery around the house.

"Sure do, sir! My wife loves the smell of flowers!" He kept up his grin, giving your shoulder a small squeeze. Even if you were a little deceived by his lies, they were fairly believable. But this cop wasn't letting go or was just in a terrible mood today.

"So, as you may know, there has been a murder in the city council recently. A brutal one." The officer continued to pace around as he spoke. Alastor feigned surprise, gasping and putting a hand to his chest.

"That's tragic! We don't keep up with crime on the news; it's all too frightening." Alastor said with a sigh, wearing a sympathetic expression like he meant it. You faked one, too, albeit not as believable. You had more of a pouting face.

"I see. So you wouldn't mind me asking what you were doing the night of it? The 29th, specifically." The officer stopped in front of you, too. You were pretty sure his hands were glued to his belt because no matter what, they stayed there.

"Well–" Alastor started, only to be interrupted.

"Hey, let the misses talk." He was catching on. At least to your silence, and he was skeptical. You paused, trying not to fidget with your skirt too much. Alastor gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, giving to the push to speak.

"We were staying in late, playing games, sir." You said, once again surprised at your calmness. It somehow eased the officer's discomfort, even though it was just a bit. He stared at you for a moment longer before continuing to pace. Alastor seized the moment to talk again.

"Ah yes, The Landlord's Game, wasn't it? You beat me, and I still blame you for cheating! " He made up the whole story; you'd never even touched that game. But you would probably cheat just to see his face when he loses.

"You deserved it after burning the chicken for dinner. " You jabbed his side, smiling slightly. A part of you enjoyed playing into this domestic fairytale of a couple living a middle-class life. Instead of murder, they spend time together reading, playing board games, or baking cookies, and they kiss each other goodbye for work. The mere thought had you lost in the ether for a moment until that stern voice spoke up again.

" That's suspicious… " He trailed off, looking between the two of you with narrowed eyes. You felt that familiar anxiety begin to seep into your skin again, and your stomach twisted a bit. "That you let the man do that cooking. " He added lightheartedly, making you laugh nervously, and Alastor forced out a hearty laugh. It was a bit strained, though, and when you looked over to Alastor, you could tell he was a little on edge now, too. After all, this officer was much bigger and seemingly more robust than him.

Alastor patted your shoulder before getting up to face the officer directly, his smile never once faltering. "Well, it's rather late! You should probably get going now! Me and my lovely wife plan to see the feux d'artifice . Couldn't bear to miss out on it this year. " The officer nodded at Alastors words, turning to leave with a sigh, only to pause when he saw something, staring at it for a couple of seconds. You looked over to the general vicinity his gaze was fixated on. It was just a little bit, but enough to be noticeable–blood on the door handle to the door that led to the basement.

You were sure the police were like ticking time bombs. It was either rage or severe suspicion , in this case, it was suspicion. The officer raised a brow, planting his feet more firmly. " Wouldn't want to keep you waiting. " He forced a small smile , " Mind if I take a look around real quick? Specifically the basement? "

Alastor's smile widened into a borderline sinister one, "Of course! Go right ahead! You're sure to only find a broken washing machine, though. I'm not as handy as I look. " Alastor chuckled, watching the man nod and look over to the basement. You knew what was about to happen; either Alastor was getting shot in the head, or the officer was getting an axe in his face.

When his back was turned, Alastor quietly walked over to the bookshelf. You wondered how many axes he kept lying around, watching as he picked up one. Sharp and seemingly brand new. Oh god, you couldn't look. You had a disdain for brains and guts if that much wasn't obvious already. But you also couldn't look away from the dark look in Alastor's eyes as he shushed you playfully and began to sneak over to the man, grinning from ear to ear.

"You know what's strange? " The officer started, stopping at the door to the basement. "You two don't have wedding rings. " He turned only to see the axe coming straight for him, standing face to face with the smile that haunts New Orleans. And then there was blood everywhere, all over the rug and walls and on the plants.

"Alastor. " You looked over, cringing at the battered and slit-open forehead of the officer. " You ruined the rug. That's new, and you know it. " You said with a small sigh, and Alastor paused.

"The Persian one?" He asked, looking back down to the rug then back to you. You nodded, and he let out a frustrated noise. "That one was antique, you should have told me darling."

"Told you right in front of him? " You said with dry sarcasm, keeping your eyes away from the body. "You gotta clean that up."

" That's part of the fun! Cleaning up. " You couldn't tell if Alastor was joking or not, even when you finally forced yourself to turn and look at him, only to see him swiping his thumb over the bloody axe and licking the blood off, humming at the taste. You sighed, turning around again. 

" What next? His brains ? " You asked, only to hear a snort from the other man.

"What are you, crazy ? " He said in between laughs, you weren't sure what was so funny. Except for the fact the man holding a bloody axe called you crazy in this moment. "The thighs and other fatty areas are much better. More meaty."

"You're gonna ruin my appetite. " You groaned unhappily, focusing your attention on the bookshelf and not the bloody body with his brains leaking out. You noticed he really did have The Landlord's Game, all packaged up neatly, looking unused. You could hear the door creak open and then the gross noises of a body falling down the stairs and an axe following suit. You wondered if being tossed down a flight of stairs broke an axe, or maybe he had expensive ones. Of course, he had expensive ones.

" Well we musnt be late! Lets see the fireworks. " Alastor placed his hands on your shoulders, making you flinch. You looked up at him, his face still a bit bloody but mostly clear.

"You were serious? " You said, looking at him quietly, almost getting lost in his eyes until he leaned away, instead pulling you up from the couch by the hand and catching you so you didn't fall.

"As if I would ever lie to you?" He said with a smile, it seemed genuine. You wished it was, you really did. And you thought it was genuine. You read too much into his actions and words…

Alastor said he knew a spot; he sure did. It was on the balcony in his room. You hadn't really ever been in his room, let alone the balcony. You didn't even know he had a balcony until now. But it was nice; the two of you sat on the ledge of the balcony, seeing through the fence that kept you from falling the two stories down. You'd imagined the fireworks would be loud, and they were, but after some time, the noises faded away.

Alastor was still looking disheveled, his curly hair being pulled by the wind and the fireworks reflecting in his eyes. You thought he looked stunning at this moment, but you'd never tell him that. Before you knew it, you weren't even looking at the fireworks. Just him.

"It's officially 1930 , isn't it. Feel any different? " He smiled looking over to you, noticing how you were looking at him. The fireworks felt so minimal at this moment. They were in second place for 'most beautiful thing ' in this current moment. Especially when he shut his trap for once and looked back at you, straight into your eyes. It felt like he was looking into your soul, but you couldn't see his. Not one bit. You thought he was flustered, but perhaps that was simply wishful thinking on your part.

"What do you see? " You inquired, breaking the silence and making him perk up and knock him out of his thoughts.

"Hm? " He kept his smile; of course he did. Sometimes, he seemed so utterly amused by you rather than enamored or flattered by your presence.

"Inside of me, you look at me like you see past my flesh and bones. " You muttered a little more quietly than you would have liked, but Alastor nonetheless responded.

"You."

You . 

Right, you. 

It's you. 

He sees you . 

Does he really read you like a book? While you only get to see the cover of him and guess the contents? Hope he's sincere and assumes his expression is one of approval and even affection despite his one-word reply. Your hand slowly inched closer to his.

"And also the person who keeps stealing my red wine. " He teased, making you pull your hand back before he could notice. Ruining moments must be his forte, his special talent. You kept your gaze trained on him, though, even if he didn't share the same intensity of the moment. "It's very obvious when a bottle goes missing from the cabinet. " You would have usually sighed and prepared yourself to listen to another long tangent about whatever. (He was an amazing radio host for a reason). But it was a new year, and you had just made a new year resolution…on the spot. "Trust me, I don't always drink whiskey–"

You could only wonder who came up with New Year's resolutions to begin with. Was it started by word of mouth? A religion? Everything has an origin, and it gets blurry as time moves forward. Most people don't know how Thanksgiving came to be, and Christmas isn't even Jesus' birthday. What really mattered was what was right now and what lay ahead. Of course, you sounded like a closing sentence for cheesy fanfiction on AO3 right now. But this was all real, right?

Whoops , you went on a bit of a tangent of your own.  

Nonetheless, your new Year resolution was to not hold back . No missing opportunities or avoiding things out of anxiety or worry. You define yourself by your actions, so why not define yourself as brave and confident? Plus, what better way to start off your year than by kissing Alastor. Only this time, perfectly sober with absolutely no excuse for grabbing him by the collar and pressing your lips against his while fireworks lit up the sky in front of you two. It was borderline cinematic, but most importantly of all, nerve-wracking, intoxicating, and–He was kissing you back, leaning a little closer and shutting his eyes.

Was this a late Christmas miracle?

You could even taste the blood on his lips, you never thought you'd enjoy the bitter taste of it. Yet here you were, wanting to kiss him forever as you tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear. It was useless anyways, the wind almost immediately blew it out of place again. Yet it was a simple and sweet gesture nonetheless. He reciprocated by placing his hands on your cheeks, and you opened your mouth slightly. He nearly pulled away, thinking you were going to say something but pausing when you pressed your tongue against his lips.

You knew he was confused; of course he was. But you began to wonder if you were pushing it too far only to feel his grasp on your cheeks grow firmer, and his lips part slightly, letting you press your tongue closer. You didn't move your hands, content with having one on his cheek while the other rested on the ground. You already felt warm all over when you tasted him. He tasted like whiskey and still had that tinge of bloody taste to him, but at the same time, it was so sweet. 

You never considered yourself to be romantic, but you loved this.

Chapter Text

When Alastor was a kid, people always said he was such a cute boy with his hazel eyes reminiscent of the orangish hue of leaves during the fall, and his soft caramel skin. The elders in his family would pinch his cheeks and ruffle his hair, asking about school and grades. He did get good grades; he was even an honors student from middle school until high school graduation. A hardworking, kind soul who loved his mother. Alastor had a normal life, and he was, by all means, a good kid. But it can be pretty easy to hide your thoughts and desires. It can also be easy to steal just a little salt from the kitchen cabinet and go out to sprinkle it on snails and watch them die. Alastor…Well, he liked watching them die. He enjoyed the way the salt burnt their sensitive flesh and how they writhed in pain before succumbing to the dryness. His aunt caught him once sprinkling salt on a snail, and she scolded him before writing it off as a normal thing boys his age did.

When that wasn't enough, Alastor moved on to mice when he was 12. His family had a rodent problem, so his mother set up a mouse trap to capture and release them. Despite it being cheaper to just get a mouse trap that killed, she couldn't bear even taking the life of a mouse. Alastor wouldn't be lying if he said he felt bad, but the adrenaline rush of coming home from school while his mother was still at work and stealing the mice from the cage to take to his room and experiment on...Well, it was irresistible. He'd set up the traps again afterwards. "I guess the mice are just getting smarter!" His mother exclaimed with a sigh.

When Alastor was 17, his mother passed away from polio. The one person Alastor truly cared about. He had to move in with his aunt and switch schools, and that wasn't easy. Not in the slightest. Alastor had grown up. His voice had deepened, he'd gotten taller, and his facial features more defined. He was a conventionally attractive man, and he took care of himself. So it wasn't a surprise when girls at school almost immediately obsessed over him and practically followed him around like some lost puppies. He'd lost the only woman–the only person he cared about- and the constant attention from these women and nagging from his aunt to just 'find a nice woman' pushed him over the edge.

Alastor committed his first murder.

It was sloppy. Of course it was. A girl from school begged to walk home with him, and he finally had enough and said yes. It wasn't premeditated, so it's not like he had a knife or anything. All he had were his two hands. So when he led her to the bayou near his house, he started strangling her without warning.

It was fascinating.

She was a whole foot shorter than him, and yet she fought back with such strength that it surprised him. She dug her nails into his hands and forearms and tried to scream despite the pressure on her windpipe. She had such fear in her eyes while she kicked his ribs and legs, and tried to pry his hands off of her. Alastor watched, unmoving. He nearly let go a couple of times, sending a shiver down his spine–fear. Fear of what could happen if she got away. If she escaped. A million thoughts raced through his head as he watched her body slowly go limp in his grasp, and the color drained from her eyes. He kept his grip on her neck tight for around 5 minutes afterwards, just to make sure she was dead. Eventually, he dropped her and watched her lifeless body collapse into the mud.

It wasn't just fascinating, it was exhilarating.

Alastor never felt his heart pound in his ribcage so much. The goosebumps on his skin that felt tingly, and the way his hands shook as his reality sank in, just like how her body did in the thick mud beneath them.

Alastor killed someone.

He killed someone, and it felt amazing.

When he got his dream job as a radio host, things couldn't be better. Killing became routine. It was a hobby and stress reliever from the trials and tribulations of trying to make it as a radio host in New Orleans. Even when he did make it, nothing beat luring a nice man or woman from a bar to his car, taking them to the bayou and then letting them run for their life. He wouldn't bother running after them, just to give them the false sense of freedom being so close by, up until they would slip on the damp mud beneath them or trip on a branch and cower in fear as their final moments enveloped their weak bodies.

Alastor bathed in the way terror painted their features, the pleas and desperate attempts to get away before he swung an axe to their face and watched them drop dead in an instant or those final moments where the adrenaline overran them to the point where they couldn't feel pain, but only feel the inevitable death awaiting them. Sometimes he would cut them up there and put specific parts in a bag, either as a souvenir or for dinner.

Right now, Alastor was indulging in the simple pleasures of life, cutting up human remains while listening to some King Oliver from the phonograph. He had grown accustomed to the smell of rotting flesh, but never the flies. He was never sure where they came from, considering this was a windowless basement, but there were always flies swarming around the next dead meat, eating away at HIS food. Right now, he was undergoing the same issue while trying to slice off the leg of his beloved friend Nifty's…" Unfortunately," deceased husband.

Just because it may have been unlikable in life, doesn't mean it can't be delicious in death. Alastor had gone an unreasonable amount of time (3 months) without feasting on something as delectable as fried and boneless calves and thighs, perhaps sprinkled in breadcrumbs even. Albeit, it wouldn't taste as good since he didn't actually hunt it.

This girl who moved in had put a wrench in his cannibalistic extracurriculars. He didn't particularly mind it, nor blame her. His insatiable thirst for flesh weighed less on his mind when she was around to keep him company. She made some ridiculously good grilled cheese, too. But her coffee was far too sweet to enjoy. It could barely be considered coffee, Alastor would argue, and a meaningless and…generally unserious debate about what is considered coffee would incur. She won that debate, although not enthusiastic about losing arguments, or losing in really anything, he didn't mind it as much with her. He couldn't quite explain why, and that frustrated him to no end.

She wasn't a mouse that he could trap and kill, and she most certainly wasn't a snail he could sprinkle salt on until they died. She was much more akin to a cat, and sometimes he truly felt like she was stalking him like prey. Circling around him and ready to pounce at any moment. Truthfully, it didn't scare him. Instead, it gave him an exhilarating feeling, one akin to the feeling he would get when he killed someone. She could be a serious danger to his life, and he loved every moment of it. It was slightly frustrating, but he didn't mind playing this game. He just couldn't allow himself to be the mouse.

Right now, she was upstairs. He thought that at least. The phonograph was far too loud for anything to be heard other than the occasional grinding of a saw against bone before a satisfying crack. Then the rest is a smooth cut before he tosses the limb off to the side to be worked on later. It was a strenuous activity, sure. But it was fun, nonetheless. Cutting and cutting until it was nothing but fragments of a human being.

─── ⋆⋅ ♰ ⋅⋆ ───

News flash, you were indeed upstairs. You'd been reading on the couch in the living room, eating potato chips. They tasted terribly bland–mostly like salt. But the texture and sound of the crunch in your mouth was orgasmically delicious. So much so, you just couldn't help but munch on them until there was none left, and the owl on the packaging was looking at you with great disdain and mild disgust. Such a unique feeling to be fat-shamed by a cartoon owl…

Things with Alastor were... different. It felt like your dynamic altered every single day, and it was somewhat exhausting. You talked to him this morning over coffee, and on the outside, you two would look back to normal, but that was so very far from the truth. The sound of fireworks still rang in your ears, and the thumping of your heart as he said it. "You." He sees you. It clouded your mind. You felt like a hopeless, lovesick teenager again, though surely you were not in love, right?

You contemplated it, but you learned that if you thought about it too much, you would only come to the conclusion that he hated you and wanted absolutely nothing to do with you. Absurd, right? Emotions were absurd. Being human was absurd!

You knew right now Alastor was in the basement cutting up the body. Not only because he said he was going to be, but because you could hear the loud jazz music echoing in the basement. You'd rarely seen him go down there, but you found that whenever he did, he would put a record on. Possibly to drown out the disturbing squelching and bone-cracking noises(?) Or maybe just to dance a bit while working.

It goes without saying that you hated that basement. You never had a green thumb, but you found yourself watering the plants on a regular basis to keep them alive and drown out the rotting smell that emanated from the basement. It was so very gross, and you couldn't understand how Alastor put up with it. However, if anyone asked Alastor, he could impishly claim the rotting smell came from whatever strange disease the plants would contract from you that made them drop dead. Obviously, that couldn't be true, right? You were beginning to think it might when you couldn't even keep a succulent alive for a week. You had already killed a handful of plants for watering them too much or too little, something that Alastor was not the happiest about.

You felt somewhat bad. It was unnecessary guilt…Somewhat. Nifty's husband was definitely on the heavier side, and Alastor already had so much trouble carrying him down the stairs. He broke a sweat or two while doing it, and nearly fell down the stairs. It was pretty embarrassing, and almost funny when he tried to act like he didn't almost slip and fall down the flight of stairs. You didn't really understand how chopping up bodies worked, but you could only assume it took even more muscle power to slice through the extra fat.

It's fairly obvious where you're going with this.

You were going to help him. Mostly out of guilt and as a…charitable offer. But also out of a mild curiosity that overpowered your disgust. Curiosity didn't kill the cat; it killed a husband. A husband who was going to be chopped up.

After putting on two face masks, a pair of Alastor's trusty gloves he kept in a very random kitchen cabinet, and an apron, you walked over to the basement door. It was rather climactic in a way, but also not. Almost like some random person was writing you and didn't know how to take up space to make this transition into the next scene look remotely normal and not rushed at all. It would be pretty funny if you were just some random piece of fiction created by a person who put off writing another chapter because college and work sucks. That would be absurd. That should go in a script…

You shook your head, stopping those existential crisis thoughts and opening the door only to immediately be hit with the rotting smell and noise of jazz ringing in your ears. You usually liked jazz, but you preferred it at a normal, more calm volume. Not a volume that would give you permanent hearing damage. Surprisingly, your eardrums didn't explode, and even more surprisingly, the smell didn't make you gag. You took a couple of steps down, and it didn't take long for Alastor to see you.

He perked up so excitedly, if there wasn't a dead body and bloody saw in his hands, you would think he was happy over something innocent like catching a butterfly. He quickly cut off the music, which you were…eternally grateful for.

"Hey, Alastor." You started, deciding to talk down the stairs so he could actually hear you properly. He was smiling, looking at you curiously as he kept the saw casually in his gloved hands. You looked over to the body, already mid-dissection. The cuts were clean and precise; it was disturbing and fascinating at the same time. "I just…Yknow." You started, looking back up to Alastor, who seemed…Fine? "I was going to ask if you needed help, but I guess you don't." You said, sighing a sigh of relief. However, that relief was short-lived. Incredibly short-lived.

"Oh no, I would love some help, Mon Cher! I can teach you a thing or two as well!" He grinned widely, gesturing to the body casually. He walked over to his toolbox and pulled out some pliers and a machete. "You could get rid of the nails and eyes, or decapitate it if you'd like. Whichever one!"

You looked between the two options, but neither sounded particularly pleasant. But you did offer to help, so you didn't complain. You took the machete, looking down at the lifeless body. His skin was already graying, and his neck looked more wrinkly than you remembered–like it was shriveling up and molding. You paused and looked over to Alastor, who was grinning from ear to ear, waiting for you to start. "I think I'll need you to teach me how to actually do it." You said with an awkward laugh.

"Right! How rude of me, darling." He sighed at himself, using the opportunity to walk behind you somewhat, just to take your hands in his over the machete handle and guide it to a specific spot on the man's neck. It was in the middle, and Alastor seemed very precise about where it was. "This spot's the best, it offers a cleaner cut." He explained. However, you weren't exactly listening. You felt his hands squeezing yours, and his front gently pressed against your back. The warmth emitting from him was such a stark contrast to the chilly air in the basement; it made you shiver and your stomach do flips. No, not flips. Your stomach did a whole gymnastic routine.

He guided your hands up before letting go. "Now, swing it down on the spot I mentioned." He instructed, his hands lingering on yours for a second longer than needed before taking a step back and watching curiously. You could only pretend you actually heard anything he said. Instead, you swung the machete down and–

SPLAT!

"Is there supposed to be that much blood?"

No. There isn't apparently supposed to be that much blood.

5 minutes later, after swallowing back vomit a couple of times, you threw up in the bathroom. Your whole face, chest, and hair were covered in sticky red blood. It was incredibly disgusting and uncomfortable. But hey, at least Alastor was there to hold your hair back for you with mild amusement visible on his face.

"Maybe decapitation just isn't your specialty." He mentioned casually while you finished gagging into the toilet, coughing violently. You peered up at him, and although thankful that he held your hair back for you…You weren't feeling the empathy with that small grin on his face.

"Very funny." You deadpanned, shooting him an unenthusiastic glare as he let go of your hair and moved to turn on the shower.

"Never said it was… I'm assuming you'll want a shower? You got a bit messy." He spoke, taking off his bloodied apron to sit down on the counter. He'd have to bleach his whole bathroom later from the bloodied footprints and slight puddles. You really had hit an artery or two. "I'll admit, it's some talent. You got a whole fountain going with his carotid arteries." Alastor said in momentary amusement, which soon fell into slight concern when he saw you gag again.

You hated to admit it, but you were genuinely upset. You could do with the moderate blood that got on you after killing victims, but the sheer amount of blood from a corpse that had been rotting for a while now… it smelled disgusting and it was sticky–thicker than it should be. "I can't even touch it…" You groaned, your eyes shut tightly as you felt a drip down your forehead. Pitiful, or perhaps empathetically, Alastor helped you up from the floor and guided you into the shower, clothed. You couldn't care less, you needed that blood off.

"I'll admit, it can be…unpleasant." Alastor said quietly–almost guiltily–but when you opened your eyes, you saw a lack of relatability in his eyes. He understood the concept; that's all that mattered. "May I help?" He asked, his hands hovering over your hair. He didn't particularly mean his touch to be perceived romantically, at least you didn't think so. But it was nice to think of it as such deep, deep down. You simply nodded, feeling his hands guide you under the water and come to your hair to wash off.

The water itself was warm enough to soothe your persistent nausea, but not enough to soothe the shiver that went down your spine when his fingertips massaged your scalp, running through your hair. It felt like he'd done this before, which was true. His gentleness, the borderline reverence in his touch. He remembered how, when his mama's polio got worse and she could no longer walk, he would help her wash her hair and shower. It felt like something akin to that, in its own odd yet nostalgic way. The whole room felt warm from the steam and quietness that seemed to grow louder and louder with every moment. You didn't know where he got it from–the ability to run his fingers through longer hair without tugging at knots or scratching your scalp. But you didn't know a lot of things about him; it was just another thing to add to the list of silent and unanswered questions. All you knew was he was humming quietly, like how he tended to do when he zoned out. And you also knew that you felt like a dog getting their ear scratched just right. Weird? Maybe. But an honest comparison.

His hands slid down your hair, undoing your apron. You let him take it off–it was bloodied and gross after all. But then his hands slid down to your shirt, and your breath caught on itself, "You-..." You blurted out, the words dying on your tongue as he seemed to snap out of his thoughts. You looked over, watching the cogs in his brain work to what conclusion you came to, and his hands jerk away like you burnt him, and his cheeks get warmer. Oh. He was…Flustered?

"My…My bad, darling. I didn't mean to." He stuttered slightly, taking a small step away. You wanted to tell him to continue; you really wanted to. But you didn't want to admit you enjoyed his touch in a way he didn't mean.

"It's fine…" You muttered, bathing in that flustered expression a little too much. You liked it when he showed something other than composure. Anything that wasn't calm and composed. "I should probably actually shower now though…" You said, your hands drifting to your shirt.

"Right. Right. I should shower too." He said, a pause in between statements as he fixed his glasses, before he quickly added. "In the other bathroom, of course." He turned and left, maybe a little bit too quickly. At least too quickly for your liking. Nonetheless, you were left with a slight grin from his reaction. It felt like a treat whenever you caught him off guard. It was so out of character in a way where you wondered if you were the only one who got to see him like that. You'd certainly hoped so…Nobody else deserves to see him like that, at least not in your humble and unbiased opinion.

You rinsed yourself thoroughly, making a note to burn those clothes because you sure as hell were not wearing them again. Bleach and 3 hours worth of scrubbing could not get out the gunk you were sure seeped its way into the fabric.. In the meantime, you realized a whole new beast you had to conquer–making dinner tomorrow. Alastor bought you a cookbook a few weeks ago, and it had been sitting on your desk until he asked you yesterday about it in passing. Unfortunately, you promised to make something from it.

(You did not promise you wouldn't set the kitchen on fire).