Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

New Orleans: the city that never slept. The days were hard worked with sleepy-eyes and sluggish limbs; but the nights were alive. The nights had music pouring out every door and the streets were a hazy yellow from the clubs that dominated the French Quarter.

People talked about leaving, how New York was the place to be, saying they’d give their eye just to have a chance to see the city. Not you. You were quite happy where you were.

That being said, you never got to experience those New Orleans nights that tired the workingman—you were nowhere near as brazen as some of them. You dreamed of going out in those stringy, sequined dresses some girls wore. You dreamed of having a handsome fellow on your arm, escorting you from club to club as you danced the night away. (Maybe even give you a kiss, but you always chided yourself for thinking that.)

No, you enjoyed them from afar, watching people from the diner as they partied and danced the night away. That was one of the reasons you didn’t mind Mr. Shattuck having you work late. (Well, that and the pay.) You had the best seat in the whole of New Orleans to watch the never ending party.

Tonight was no different. Mr. Shattuck had gotten off early, waving his cap at you when he was half-out the door, asking you to close up. You bade him farewell, too busy with your customer to care. But, that was hours ago.

Now, you were alone in the diner, the door wide open as you ‘aired’ it out. (Really, though, it was to get a better view at the bustling street.) Your only company, the radio and your broom.

Normally, on nights like this, you didn’t bother with the old radio. The air was filled with a myriad of jazz music; a radio would only clash. But, you were plagued with a sort of melancholy, making you wistful for a life that had never been yours. So, you kept the radio on low, humming along with the singer that played.

You swept the floor, twirling every now and again, imagining it was your debonair dance partner. Humming turned to singing and you lost yourself in your little world of make-believe. In fact, you were so caught up in your thoughts, you didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.

You spun with abandon, your work skirt flapping in the wind, broom flush with your bosom, when you came face-to-face with a stranger. He leaned against the doorframe, relaxed and assertive.

“Oh!” You stumbled back, a little dizzy and very much alarmed by the man’s sudden appearance. But alarm was soon overshadowed by embarrassment. You pushed all that aside and cleared your throat. “I’m sorry, sir, we’re closed for the evening.”

The stranger chuckles and shakes his head. “Not to worry, my dear! I only stopped in to discover who that lovely voice belonged to.”

You blushed unabashedly, unable to even thank the man. (Oh, your Daddy would be rolling if he knew you forgot your manners.) But, you couldn’t help it! Your voice caught in your throat.

He was certainly a fine gentleman, still dressed in his work clothes, a white button-down and red suspenders. He must've gelled back his hair, but the day had loosened it; a curly brown tendril hung in the center of his forehead. A pair of round glasses framed his eyes. And something about his voice …

“You sing wonderfully,” the stranger continued. “Why - someone should put you on the radio.”

You stare down at your shoes, the blush completely encompassing your face, “Thank you, sir.”

His grin widened, two cute dimples dotting his tanned cheeks, and he went on like you’d said nothing at all. “And let me tell you; I know a thing or two about the radio, my dear.” He chuckles again, somewhat self-satisfied.

And then, it clicked! The radio, his voice…

You nearly dropped your broom. “You’re-! You’re the Radio Man!”

He gave a hammy little bow. “Alastor.”

“Alastor,” you repeat. You push forward, completely in awe of the man before you. “I listen to your show religiously! Well - that is, I mean to say - when Mr. Shattuck allows it. Normally he wants to have on a drama, but if I can I have it on you while I work.”

“You flatter me.” Alastor laid his hand over his chest appreciatively. “I’m honored to have such a fine young woman listen to my ramblings.”

“Oh, but they aren’t ramblings! You're so clever and your show is so entertaining. Everyone loves you.” You stared at him with wide-eyes, not wanting to blink because you wanted to remember every moment. “You’re New Orleans’ own star!”

Alastor seems pleased to hear this, laughing at your enthusiasm. The grin on his face was as broad as a crescent moon.

You gesture to the counter beside you and ask, “Would you like some coffee, sir?”

“Please, just Alastor,” he softly corrects. “And I wouldn’t want to put you out any. I only wished to pay my compliments. You have talent.”

“Oh, but you wouldn’t be! That is, putting me out. It’s no trouble at all, especially for the Radio Man himself.” You gave him a silly sort of grin. In that moment, you couldn’t help but feel like an overeager schoolgirl, doing anything in her power to please her little crush.

He paused to consider the offer and glanced behind him, like there was someone waiting on him; but shook his head and returned focus back to you. “Well then. I’m afraid I can’t refuse an offer as sweet as that.”

Alastor pushes off the door frame and stalks towards the counter with a sort of grace that made it seem like he was dancing.

He was tall, you realized. Much taller than you, maybe by a head, maybe more. He seems to fill the room with his presence and you couldn’t help but feel extraordinarily small. (Not only in size, but in personality.)

You eagerly ran behind it, discarding the broom somewhere along the way. The radio plays a sweet melody, filling the silence between the two of you.

Chapter Text

He came again.

Unlike his previous visit, it was broad daylight, with no radio or swing music playing, and you were in the middle of an order.

You felt him before you saw him. There was some kind of magnetic air about him, like he couldn’t quite contain his personality. It made the hair on your arms raise and a pleasant shiver run down your spine.

And there he was. Alastor. He stood right in the doorway, much like he’d done the night before, with a knowing smile on his lips.

Some unspoken conversation passes between you in that moment.

I hoped you’d be here.

You knew I'd come.

You smile, lowering your head. No, I didn’t.

Alastor laughs at your modesty. It fills you up with a warm, fuzzy feeling. You chide yourself for being so childish.

He was much more put together now than he had been last night. There wasn’t a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his shirt. He wore a nice, brown vest over his button down and bow tie to top it off. He passes by you, shooting you a knowing wink.

You hurried behind the counter just as he sat down at the stool. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Alastor made a face as soon as the word sir left your mouth, but didn’t correct you. “A cup of your delicious coffee, my dear. You’ve got me hooked!”

The blush on your cheeks deepen. “Coming right up.”

And that was the start of it, you supposed. (Of what, exactly, you couldn’t tell. There was no defined label.)

At odd hours of the day, Alastor would stop by your diner and sit at a barstool. He ordered his cup of coffee, black, with no sweeteners of any kind. Occasionally, he ordered something else, like a slice of pie, but coffee was his staple.

Talk between the two of you was mainly pleasantries. How-was-your-day-oh-wonderful-what-would-you-like-to-eat and all that. Sometimes he asked a little more, like what kind of food you liked or would you be staying late to clean again. Sometimes you asked him things, but Alastor always turned the subject back to you, saying he was too boring to discuss.

(Really, how boring could a famed radio host be? If anything, him not answering your questions made you all the more interested.)

A part of you worried for him. Alastor was so thin as it was, and on multiple occasions you tried to get him to eat; but he would laugh off your concern and assure you he was doing well. (“I’ve got a delicate diet, my dear!” he assures you. “I prefer to cook my food myself so I know exactly what’s in it.”) You suppose you couldn’t fault him for that.

Then came the radio attention. Alastor talked about the diner on his show, which in turn sent a wave of new customers through your door. If the Radio Man said it was good, then they had to try it out. That, and many of them hoped to get a look at him.

When you asked him about it, Alastor claimed you’d taken such good care of him, he had to repay you somehow.

Mr. Shattuck noticed this change and congratulated himself, deciding that it was all his doing that radio star, Alastor, loved the food so much. You let him think that, if only to keep Alastor your secret a little while longer.

The little schoolgirls crush within you became inflamed with every visit. You couldn’t help but look forward to his visits and your heart fluttered every time you heard his voice, on the radio or in person.

Your favorite visits were when he came before a night on the town. That was when he looked his absolute best. You would never admit it, but you found his club outfits far more attractive than the working ones. And you could always tell when he was going out-on-the-town, for that was when he traded in his brown vest, bowtie, and suspenders for a crimson set.

So very dapper and every bit the debonair dance partner you imagined. You begged him to tell you stories of his club adventures. Of the people there, the sounds, the smells, the dancing. Alastor always obliged you with a grin.

It was the beginning of October, now, and Alastor appeared in your doorway as you cleaned the joint. He waits with you, lending a hand when you need one, but remains a mostly quiet bystander.

Suddenly, Alastor broke the silence. “Tell me, my dear, what’s a young girl like you doing out so late?” he’d asked. “Don’t tell me it’s because of that boss of yours. Your mother must worry an awful lot.”

You continue to wipe down the tables, refusing to look him in the eye, “My momma’s in heaven.”

“Oh.” Alastor rests his head upon his palm, his eyebrows knitting together. “Then, your father?”

“Daddy works for the railroad,” you supply. “It keeps him busy and the pay’s decent. He’s gone more than he’s here.”

Alastor’s frown deepens. “So you’re left all alone? My, that must be tough for a girl your age.”

You lay the rag down and put your hands on your hips, meeting his gaze with your stern one. “I’m out of school and grown enough to take care of myself. A real woman, Mr. Alastor, not some little girl.”

“Of course.” He rose his hands in surrender, though an amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I never meant to insinuate you couldn’t.”

“Hmph.”

The rest of the time, as Alastor chats on mindlessly, you can’t help but feel embarrassed. Is that how he thinks of you? A child? Sure, he was several years your senior, (Possibly a decade, now that you thought about it.) but that never seemed like a problem before.

Your spirits lower.

When you finish, Alastor helps you lock up and you turn out the lights. However, instead of going his separate way, like usual, he stays by your side and stares with that piercing gaze of his. In the low light of the street, his brown eyes seem red.

After a moment, he speaks, “Allow me to walk you home, will you? I can’t, in good conscience, let you go alone on a night like this.”

“Night like this?” you echoed.

“Why, haven’t you heard?” Alastor threads your arm through his and gives you a short, sweet pat. It was the first time you noticed he wore gloves. “There’s a killer on the loose.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “A killer? Since when?”

“Who knows, my dear!” Alastor bends down so he is more your height. “The police have started an investigation. The media seems to believe he’s been killing for a while.”

“And it’s only now being investigated?”

A shadow covers his face, and for a moment, Alastor didn’t seem like himself. “He’s getting bolder.”

You swallow hard. A killer in New Orleans. It was like the Axeman all over again. Though, you were only seven at the time the Axeman stopped killing, you could remember the year well. A year of fear. Then, you’d had your father to protect you; but, now…

Alastor notices your fear and smiles. “It’ll be alright, my dear. No one is going to hurt you when I’m around.”

And so began your nightly tradition. No matter if he’d come that morning or afternoon, Alastor always showed up during closing to walk you home. Your romantic heart clung to those moments with all its might.

You understood that he was only doing it out of obligation - walking a poor girl home when her father was out of town to clear his conscience. He’d done his good deed for the day and all that. But, you couldn’t stop yourself fantasizing that he was your date, a man very much in love with you, walking you home after a successful night on the town.

The fantasy always ended at the door, when (instead of giving you a kiss) Alastor patted you on the head and wished you a goodnight and told you to lock up once you got inside. You always thanked him and always did as he said.

Until one day, Alastor went off script.

“Beg off early tomorrow,” says Alastor. He pulls you around to face him when you reach the front door. “In fact, demand it. Tell that boss of yours you shan't be staying a moment longer than five o’clock.”

“But, why?”

“I want to take you somewhere.” Alastor smiles kindly down at you and lifts you onto the stoop. You’re nearly his height, now, just below his nose. “You’ll love it, my dear. I just know it. Say yes, will you?”

You blink in surprise. Had your fantasy finally overcome reality? Discreetly, you pinch yourself, but the scene in front of you didn’t waver. It was real!

“Yes,” you breathe, “Yes, of course.”

“Marvelous!” Alastor leaned in suddenly and you went stiff. His lips touched your forehead, a barely-there kind of kiss; but, all the same, you turn scarlet. “I’ll pick you up from here, say, eight o’clock? Just put on whatever you have that’s nicest.”

“Alright.”

He began to walk off, talking as he went. “Goodnight, my dear! Make sure to lock those doors.”

You nod, but he was too far to see. In fact, you didn’t move at all until he turned the corner, vanishing into the night. Even then, his whistling remains, echoing back to you like a bird’s love song.

As soon as you were safely inside, you slid down your front door, smiling giddily.

Chapter Text

Mr. Shattuck let you off without much complaint. (Much, you say, because there were a few grumbles here-and-there; how you were usually so good, etcetera etcetera.) In fact, begging off early was the easiest part of the evening.

It was when you got home you realized how much trouble you were in. Put on whatever’s best, he said. At the time, you hadn’t given it any thought. Now, you were faced with the issue that you had no best.

There were a few dresses here and there, your two diner uniforms included. And then there were the skirts, but those were left over from your school days. Finally, you settled on a black party dress you’d bought a few years back for your gal pal, Elsibeth’s birthday party.

You applied a little blush and lipstick (the only lipstick you owned, a pretty shade of pink you’d seen in a shop window a couple of months prior). When you finished, you smile at your reflection. That was a woman if you’d ever seen one. Grown and sure of herself.

Not a few minutes later came the knock on your door. Your heart leapt into your throat and you gave yourself a final once over before answering the door.

Alastor stood there on your little stoop, his hair slicked back and shirt crisp. His red suspenders matched the red of his bowtie. Never before had he looked so handsome. Alastor smiles at you, his eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

He lays his hand over his heart and says, “Goodness, my dear, you clean up well.”

“Thank you.” You accept Alastor’s arm and close the door behind you. “You look rather dapper yourself.”

“You flatter me.”

Alastor helps you off the stoop and the two of you walk towards town. You can’t help but feel giddy. As soon as you rounded the corner, the streets came alive. Women and their dates ran rampant in the streets. Multi-colored lights lit up house-to-house, club-to-club. Jazz poured from every club, and when you passed by their doors, you caught a peek at the vivacious dancing. The scent of tobacco and alcohol filled your lungs.

This was New Orleans. Your New Orleans.

Alastor can’t keep a grin off his face, either. He walks confidently, which in turn made you walk confidently. Never before have you felt so alive, so admired. You smile at one another, hoping he understood what you didn’t have the confidence to say.

Thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me.

You walk a little further, passing a traveling band who tip their hats to you. You beam at them, and Alastor nods to them in return.

“Ah.” Alastor slows down and points to a vague strip of businesses. You look, curious. “Here we are.”

You don’t catch the name of the club; but, you suppose it doesn’t matter. It looks like any other club you'd ever seen (from the outside, of course.). There's a brick front, blacked out windows for privacy; but, people came in and out so frequently that privacy was for naught.

There's a big man out front, a bouncer, you suppose. He greets Alastor with a friendly cheer, telling him to Get his ass in there. Alastor waves him off, laughing.

He led the way, you clinging to his arm like a child not wanting to separate from her parent. If he minds, he doesn't let on. Alastor smiles and waves to a few people loitering on the street, obviously a well known face these parts; but, he doesn't make conversation with any of them. Only a brief hello-how-do-you-do-see-you later and then he pulls you through the door of the club. As soon as you enter, you’re hit full force with the music and you are instantly transported to a whole other world.

A jazz band sat in the far corner of the room, nearly invisible by the bodies on the dance floor.

They swung around one another in a frenzy of limbs and lively movements. You fixated on the couples before you, watching in awe as they partied. In fact, you were so transfixed that you didn’t notice the woman coming up to the two of you until she was upon you.

“Al!”

“Hello, Mimz!”

The woman - ‘Mimz’ - lays a chaste kiss on Alastor’s cheek as a form of greeting. You smile at her awkwardly.

She glances over at you and cocks her head. “Al, who is this young thing on your arm.”

“My lovely date for the evening,” he boasts. You reach to shake her hand. “My dear, this is Mimzy. She’s the owner of this fine establishment and a dear friend of mine.”

“I love it,” you say. “It’s so lively - I hardly know where to look!”

Mimzy laughs. “Thank you, hon. Al, you take care. I have some business to attend to.”

She scoots past the two of you and is gone as soon as she’d arrived.

“Now then,” Alastor gives you a small squeeze on the arm. “Come along, my dear.”

He expertly weaves across the dance floor and the two of you stop at a booth. There’s a gruff looking man with two girls on either side of him, lavishing him with neck kisses and scandalous whispers. You only catch snippets of what they say, but it's enough to make you uncomfortable. Why on earth would Alastor want to stop here of all places? You don't have the chance to ask.

The gruff man takes note of Alastor, then his gaze falls to you. He laughs boisterously. “Al - What did you do? Rob a fuckin' cradle before you came?”

Alastor's grin tightens. “Not quite."

The man makes a noncomittal noise.

Alastor helps you slide into the booth, then sits down after you. You're too close to the licentious woman and her rear slides up against you. You scoot back a little, but Alastor's body prohibits you from moving any further.

The women break away from their necking, and you realize that their twins. They turn their attention to Alastor, and you are rendered invisible.

“Al!” cries the one on the left.

“Where have you been,” says the one beside you in a scolding tone.

Alastor makes a gesture towards you, “I decided it was time to take this doll out on the town! My dear, these are the Hill sisters, Gertie and Mae; and that strapping fellow there is Jon.”

You wave, but the trio only stares at you as if you'd grown a second head. Your smile faltered.

It was the sisters who broke the silence.

“Why, Al!” Gertie (or was that Mae?) exclaims. “Where did you pick her up?”

Mae (possibly Gertie) leans on the table, staring at you agog. “Why, she’s positively green!”

The table erupts in laughter and you feel like you’ve missed some joke. You smile shyly.

“How did you two meet?” asks the sister across from you. You open your mouth to answer, but she beats you to the punch. “Babysitting?”

“No. I work at a diner, you see -” None of them are listening, though, caught up in another cycle of laughter. Alastor is laughing, too. You feel your confidence start to sink.

“How old are you?” asks the one beside you. (Gertie, you determine, because of the gaudy G on her necklace.)

“I’m eighteen.”

“Boy, I remember eighteen,” remarks Mae, smiling scandalously at her sister. “But, you sure don’t look it. You’re just as cute as a bug’s ear, ain’t she Al? What did you say your name was, again?”

Before you could answer, Jon heralds a roaming waiter. “A round of hooch for the table, will ya?”

The waiter nods and goes back to the bar. Suddenly, the sister squeal. Gertie scoots over Jon’s lap, while Mae slips out of the booth. She lends a hand to her sister, helping her stand.

Mae tugs down her flapper dress and says, “We just love this song!”

“Jon, you’ll come dance with us, won’t you?” Gertie says with a pout. She bats her lashes prettily at the man, and you can't help but wish you looked half as decent as she did.

“Al?” asks Mae.

You didn't notice his answer, too caught up in your own head. This is a mistake, you decided. Oh, how could you be so stupid? How could you be so ... childish? To think you even had a chance. Al, they called him. Without a care in the world. It came out so casually, so fluently, that you knew they must’ve been calling him that for years.

No, you weren't jealous that they'd known him longer. (Well, maybe a little, but that's not the point.) It was the way they treated him, so familiar, so flirtatious.

Al. Had he told them to call him that? Had he introduced himself as Al the first time he’d met them (and Mimzy, too, can’t forget her)? Or, was it that the girl’s suddenly started calling him that one day and it stuck.

Al. Yes, he was Al to them. But to you? Plain, old Alastor. Cold. Formal. Almost uncaring. Al was affectionate, coquettish even. It was something a bold woman would call him

But you had to call him Alastor.

“Eh…” Jon waves them off.

The Hill sisters don't seem to be all that offended. They shrug their shoulders synchronously, deciding the song was more important than the man, and slip through the throng of dancing couples.

“Insatiable, those two," Jon grumbles. He shoots you a wink and adds, "Can’t get through the night with ‘em unless I’ve had a bit of booze. You know what I mean, yeah?”

“Fair enough, my fine fellow,” says Alastor, neither confirming nor denying that he did, in fact, know what Jon meant.

The waiter comes back around to the table with the round of alcohol that Jon had ordered and he dives in. He downs his glass in a matter of seconds, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaves the booth as well. He disappears within the throng of dancers.

You pick up your own glass, but don't drink it. You're too lost in your own head.

“Do you drink?” asks Alastor.

“Hm?”

He motions towards your glass, which you’d yet taken a sip from. “Do you drink?”

“Oh.” You frown a little, “I don’t usually have the luxury.”

“Indulge, my dear. That’s what the night is for.” Alastor raised his glass and you followed his motion, the two of you doing a small cheers. He drinks his with ease, but doesn’t finish it in one sitting like Jon did. No, he takes it slow, savoring the taste the way a man of the world would.

You take the smallest of sips and feel it warm you as it goes down. You turn back to the dance floor and smile. “It’s amazing how people can do this sort of stuff. I’ve only ever imagined it.”

Alastor lays his hand on the small of your back, “Well then, shall we dance?”

Instantly, you whip your head around. “Oh, no.”

“No?” he echoes.

“Well, you see … It’s just that … I don’t know how to.” You shrug your shoulders pathetically.

He laughs at you, “But I’ve seen you dance.”

“Sure, twirling and what not. But, I’ve never learned how to do that.” You motion to the scene behind you as couples life one another, swinging to the music, their legs never not moving.

Alastor shakes his head, still chuckling. Something you said must've really amused him. “There’s no better time to learn then the present.” He urges you to scoot off the bench, then takes you by the hand, leading you to the edge of the dance floor. “I’ll be your teacher. I’m quite good at dancing, you’ll come to find; an excellent teacher.”

He drew you up and out of the booth, towards the edge of the crowd, not letting you get another word in.

“Follow my movements, now, my dear. Like so.”

Alastor walked you through - what he claimed to be - a simple dance move that everyone at the club scene knew; the Charleston. It was tricky footwork, especially for someone as uncoordinated as you; but, after a couple of songs, you got the hang of it.

Alastor beams down at you, "Look at you go, darling girl! You're a natural!"

"Well, I have an excellent teacher," you say, flinging his words back at him.

The two of you slowly integrate into the dancing crowd, and Alastor takes it a step further, spinning you around, leading you like a good partner would do. You dance through the song change, Alastor setting the pace. He sings along with the song, his voice only loud enough for you to hear.

"When the lazy syncopation, of the music softly moans." Alastor twirls you around. "T'aint no sin, to take off your skin, and dance around in your bones!"

You laugh heartily, and let him spin you 'round and 'round over again, until you're so dizzy all you can focus on is Alastor and his lovely voice. And, it appears, he felt the same way. His chocolate eyes bore into your soul, bringing out all those warm and fuzzy feelings. You could just melt.

“Mind if I cut in?”

The two of you stop abruptly, your fantasy bursting. Your unfocused gaze lands on Mimzy, but her attention was no longer on you. She lays a hand on your shoulder, gently prying you from Alastor’s hold, reminding you of a parent shooing a child away.

“Sure …”

But neither of them heard you. Alastor's fond gaze had already forgotten you. They clung to each other, making a far better pair than you and he had, both looking so sure of themselves. They vanished in the throng of dancers, swinging and swirling their way through the crowd.

Hot tears pricked the backs of your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. You square your shoulders and bite the inside of your cheek. No, there’s no use crying over spilt milk. Let them have their fun. They deserved it.

You stalk off into the furthest corner of the club you can find, and you don't look back.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, the furthest corner of the club was the women’s restroom. The music was muffled, but it was no means as quiet as you’d hoped.

The small latrine was packed to the brim with girls, their voices loud enough to drown out the the hustle and bustle of the club. They hogged up the mirrors, primping themselves with combs and compact makeup. The talk was scandalous enough to make your ears burn.

You lean against the sink and bury your head in your hands. You won’t cry, you assure yourself, but that doesn’t stop the overwhelming exhaustion of the night to roll over you. Why did Alastor ask you out in the first place? Pity?

“Hey, you okay?” You’re startled from your thoughts by a woman's voice. It's Mae. She’s a couple feet away, Gertie at her side.

You wish you’d noticed them sooner. You frown unconsciously at them. “I’m fine, thank you.”

“You don’t look too good, hon.” The sisters exchange a look. “What’re you doin in here anyway? Al’ll be missing you.”

At this, you snort. It’s bitter and ugly, but you feel a little entitled to it all the same, all things considered. “No. I doubt he’s even noticed I’m gone.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He has Mimzy to keep him company.”

The jealousy within can’t help but spill out like a tidal wave. Oh what a fool I’ve been. An utter clown. Hot tears well up in your eyes and you can do little more than blink them away. You manage to reign those emotions back once more; but, it’s all for naught when the sisters began to laugh at you.

You straighten up and glare at the twins. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“Oh, please don’t think us wicked,” says Mae through her giggles. “It’s just ... Al and Mimzy!” She dissolves into another bought of laughter.

“I don’t understand?”

“Of course not.” Gertie laid her hand over her stomach and took several deep breathes before continuing. “You’ve been bit by the jealousy bug, hon. You can’t see two inches in front of your nose!”

Mae explains, “Al and Mimzy are old friends. That’s all.”

“They certainly seemed very friendly,” you comment. The image of them gazing at one another so fondly worms its way in your mind.

“Hon, I ain’t ever seen that boy enamored by any girl before. Certainly not Mimzy.” Gertie rolls her eyes. “And, he even danced with you unashamedly when you danced like a baby deer. He’d never let himself be embarrassed like that with another chick.”

Your cheeks burn scarlet.

Noticing your shame, Mae elbows her sister. “Gert.“

“What?” Mae makes a face, and Gertie glances at you. “Oh. Sorry, hon, I didn’t mean anything by it. All I meant to say was—”

“Al’s not an easy guy to please, but you two seem to get on just fine. Ain’t nothing to worry about.”

You wrap your arms around your middle. “I dunno about that...”

Mae cocks her head, looking at you with a strange sort of fondness and concern. “Is this your first time?”

“With what?”

“The club,” supplies Gertie, “A fella. All of it.”

You nod. “That obvious?”

“Don’t worry ‘bout it, sweetie,” says Mae kindly. “We’ve all been there.”

It’s strange. Before, out in the club, they’d seemed so intimidating—an untouchable duo. They behaved just as the modern woman should, with confidence to spare.

But now, under the fluorescent lighting, they didn’t seem so scary. In fact, they seemed normal and human.

You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The evening had been ruined. You were certain Alastor would never call on you again. (Especially if you’d embarrassed him, that made you feel ill.)

“I think we can help ya out," says Gertie, "Make this whole thing a little easier."

“Oh no,” you shook your head. “Really. It’s fine. I should probably get back out there...”

But they're already walking towards you, arm-in-arm. Either they hadn’t heard you or elected to ignore your weak excuse.

“No offense, hon, but you really do stick out like a sore thumb.” Mae reaches out and fluffs your hair. “Anyone who gets a whiff of you knows you’re green as a bean.”

“All it would take is a little lipstick,” points out Gertie. “Nothing to be done about that hair, now.”

“Or that dress.”

“But maybe if you just twist it up some …”

“The dress?”

“No, the hair.”

“I see what you mean.” Mae takes hold of your hair, ignoring your protests, and twists it around her fingers. She pulls a pin out from her little clutch and sticks it in. “Like that?”

“Mhm.” Gertie turns over her shoulder and calls out, “Hey, Mags, you got your makeup on you?”

Mags makes a noise of acknowledgement and comes over with a pouch. The sisters dig through it, withdrawing several items and turn back to you.

“What are you doing?” you ask.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Gertie comes at you with a bright red lipstick and dabs it on your lips. You purse them on command. Once she finishes, she dabs some of the lipstick on her little finger and smears it across your cheek. Mae asks you to shut your eyes and you comply.

After a couple of moments, you speak up, “You all bring makeup with you to the club?”

“Of course!”

“When your makeup smears, it’s always good to have back-up. Fellas don’t need to know it ain’t natural.” Mae pats your arm. “You can open your eyes now.”

And you do. They turn you around to face the mirror. You blink. It takes you a second to realize that you're looking at yourself.

You were red—yes, red. (And this time, not from shame or jealously.)

Gone was the pink, girlish look you’d put on. What replaced it was the red lips and red cheeks of a woman. The sisters had even dabbed some brown makeup along your eyes, making them darker and more seductive.

You touch your cheek, in awe of the version of yourself they’d created.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “You’re amazing.”

“‘S nothin’, hon.” Gertie pats your shoulder. “Now, you need to go out there and smile. Dazzle Al with a charming smile. He’ll be eatin’ out of the palm of your hand—Mimzy be damned.”

Before you could come up with anything else to say (If only to stall a little more), the sisters were pushing you out the door.

The dim lighting of the club came as a shock to your senses. You stumble back out into the club, narrowly avoiding a collision with a couple. Anxiety knots in your stomach as realization dawned on you—now you had to face Alastor.

You take a tentative step forward, looking back for a moment. The lady’s room door is open a crack, the faces of the Hill sisters pressed against it, watching you eagerly. You steel yourself, inhaling deeply, and scan the crowd.

It’s easy to find Alastor. He’s the tallest man in the club. (And, the handsomest.) He stands on the edge of the dance floor, near the booth, frowning.

You barely take another step when he spots you. A change comes over him, he smiles; but, it seems strained. He comes to meet you halfway.

“There you are, my dear. I was starting to worry.”

“I’m sorry, Alastor.” You glance behind you, but the women’s restroom door stays shut. “I stepped away for a moment. I got to have a nice chat with Gertie and Mae.”

His lips part, as if he finally understands. “Is that why you look like … that.”

“Do you like it?” you touch your cheek unconsciously. “They offered to help out. I told them they didn't have to, but they took it upon themselves to make me really fit in.”

“It’s … different.” He smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes. “You don’t look like yourself.”

At that, you laugh. Good, you were glad you didn’t look like yourself. You’d rather be someone else tonight. Someone bolder. Someone Alastor could show off and not be ashamed of.

You bite your lip and make a brazen move. “C’mon,” you reach out and seize Alastor’s hands. He tenses. “Let’s dance.”

You don’t allow him to answer and drag him back onto the dance floor.

The night came to a close and you were sad to depart from the club; but glad to be on Alastor’s arm. The two of you bade goodnight (or good morning, as you could see that dawn was approaching) to everyone and left the club.

Alastor walked you home, but he was more quiet than usual. You filled the space with your own, mindless chatter.

“I had a wonderful time tonight, Alastor. I can’t thank you enough. Honest.” You squeezed his arm affectionately, and his muscles went taut. Your mind wandered back to the girl’s restroom. “Alastor, what do you think about my hair?”

“Beg pardon?” He frowns down at you. “What about your hair?”

"It's nothing." You shake your head dismissively. The two of you fall into an easy silence, but you start talking again, "You know, sometimes I wish I was twenty-nine, dressed in red sequins and wearing a string of pearls..."

Tonight, you felt like that woman. You smile dreamily, clinging to the warm and fuzzy feelings that lingered.

“If you were, you wouldn't be here with me," says Alastor.

Your bubble of warmth pops, returning you to cold-hard reality. "What?"

He goes on as if he didn't hear you. "If you truly want my opinion, my dear, your hair is the most attractive thing about you right now.”

“What do you mean?”

Alastor stops in the middle of the sidewalk and takes your chin between his fingers. Your neck cranes back so you can look him in the face properly. “I mean just what I said. You don’t look like yourself at all. Rather, like a whore.”

Never before had he used such language. You blink, "A ... Alastor?”

He keeps you there, pinned by his predatory gaze. You’d seen him so ... angry before. It frightens you.

“Red isn’t suitable for you, my dear. Red is the color of sin. Attention seeking whores wear the color to catch the eye of licentious men; they paint it on to tell the world they're willing to spread their legs for a glass of whiskey or a quick dance. Now tell me, my dear, is that what you were trying to do?" he asks.

Violently, you shake your head. That seems to satisfy him, so he goes on. "I thought so. Those girls were taking advantage of you, using your naivety against you. You're too pure for red.” From his pocket, Alastor withdraws a handkerchief and smears your lipstick off. “You, my dear, are pink. Pink with innocence, pink like the dawn. You are a sweet girl, untouched by depravity. You are soft. Pure.”

Alastor's voice softens at the end of his rant and so does his touch. You aren’t sure if you should be laughing or crying. All you know is that you’re paralyzed in his grasp, allowing him to wipe away every trace of makeup from your face. Deeming you clean enough, he pulls away and caresses your cheek.

“Please, promise me you’ll never be red.”

You nod. You’re not sure you can do anything else.

"I want a verbal response, my dear. I need to know you truly understand me."

When you speak, your voice is strained from holding back your tears. "I promise."

Alastor's eyes glint and he smiles. "Good girl."

The two of you resume walking as if nothing had happened at all.

Chapter Text

Alastor was not unfamiliar with rage. People always seemed so surprised by that; so surprised the moment he just ... snapped.

People were stupid. That much was certain. After all it’s a dangerous world out there—people killing people and all that—and yet they continued to be so trusting.

Last night was one of those nights. He hadn't meant to lose control like that, honest. Alastor had intended for a night of rousing fun, to feed into your inexperience and willful naivety.

But, of course, things hadn’t gone according to plan.

He could still picture your face, frozen with terror. Those wide eyes and trembling lips ... You hadn't cried, he commended you on that, crying was an ugly thing in itself. Still, he couldn't help but wonder if your tears would be as sweet as your terror. Your fear was beautiful. Alastor repressed a shiver. He knew he shouldn't think of you like that, but he couldn't help it. You were truly the best prey he'd come across in years.

Alastor stays close to the fence, hiding in the shadows. His predatory eyes stay trained on the window, watching and waiting for his prey to move. This was a long time coming. He couldn't fight the urge anymore.

Where had the night gone wrong? Alastor tried to pinpoint the exact moment; but it was obvious, you'd been damned from the start.

Almost as soon as the two of you entered Mimzy's club, his ire flared. Every eye was on you, scrutinizing you, lusting after you. (And you, of course were no the wiser. You were too focused on the movement of it all to see anything else.)

Though, if it was only the attention that bothered him, he wouldn’t be crouched in the mud.

No, Alastor could deal with a couple of curious stares. He could even handle the snide comments flung your way at the booth. What he didn’t like was the hurt that had flashed across your face from said snide comments. (Alastor didn't appreciate others playing with his prey's emotions. That was his job.)

And then—Alastor decided that this was the true scourge of the night—they had the audacity to paint you up like some wanton slut.

(You were no slut. Alastor wouldn’t allow it. Even if you were, he’d know about it and have killed you before you got this far.)

For a fraction of a second, Alastor hadn’t recognized you. You looked like every other broad in the joint. (The type he loathed to associate with. The type he hunted.)

It would’ve been one thing if it wasn’t of your own volition—if the Hill sisters had come at you with their heinous makeup to make a mockery of you. But no! You enjoyed it!

You became an entirely different person after that. Too confident, too saucy—as if you were one of those loose women that infected the streets.

Maybe, if he hadn't allowed Mimz to sweep him away and talk shop, he might have been able to stop that from happening.

Alastor knew he shouldn't care so much. Unfortunately, you had skillfully woven your way into his heart. (Alastor rolled his eyes at the thought of it, but there was no other way to describe how you infected him.) He didn't know how you'd done it. You managed to weave your way into his every waking thought, you tormented his brain like a cancer.

Maybe he should've killed you when he had the chance...

It astounded him you didn't know how lucky you were on that fateful night when you first met.

Alastor had been on his way to the club, as usual, but the itch had returned. He knew he'd kill that night, if only because he was so incredibly bored. At first, he thought he might pick up some poor soul at the club; but, that was when he heard you.

Your voice was soft, fluttering on the wind like a little bird's song. (Alastor hasn't been able to get that damned tune out of his head since then.)

" ... Little maid was quite afraid of darkness, so she said, 'I guess I'll go'..."

The average pedestrian might not've caught it, but years of hunting experience made Alastor's ears sensitive. He had quickly changed course and stumbled upon your little diner. Even more perfect, you'd left the door wide open. (This was the first testament to your naivety. Really, you should have known better than to do something so stupid. It's a wonder no crazies on the street took advantage of you before he had.)

"...So shine on, shine on harvest moon, up in the sky. I ain't had no lovin' since April, January, June, or July—Oh!."

He had been ready, hand curled around the knife in his pocket, but ...

Well, Alastor couldn't say what made him stop, but he thought it had something to do with your innocence. You were unlike any person he'd ever met. New Orleans was so jaded, the population filled with sex-fiends, liars, and thieves. But not you. You had a child's wonder in your eye when you spoke with him, you were so unbelievably earnest. Alastor had released his knife and determined that it wasn't your time to die after all.

When he came back the next day, he thought about doing it again. He even followed you home, with you none the wiser; but, like the night before, he couldn't make himself. This vicious cycle continued for days; and like all the days before that, he chickened out. Why you? That question was always at the forefront of his mind. What was so special about you that made you unkillable?

Your innocence. It always came back to that. You were genuine—virtuous, even, and Alastor had the insatiable desire to corrupt you.

He decided to keep you for himself, play with you a little, until he crushed you. You became a pet of sorts. Alastor had never had the luxury of a pet in his youth, and everyone needed to experience that kind of bond once before they died, right?

Mimzy didn't like it.

Tonight, when she had pulled him away, she took it upon herself to give him a stern talking-to.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she'd whispered in his ear.

Alastor swept her between his legs. When she came back up again, the scowl on her face remained. "You're going to have to be more specific."

"You’ve got dozens of witnesses who've seen you with that little girl! Are you tryin’ to get yourself caught?"

Alastor had only chuckled. He didn't bother correcting the ol' girl; but, really, he hadn't been caught up until now, and the police had nothing on him. A little partying with his pet wouldn't change a thing.

"I'm serious, Al." She stopped dancing and glared inquisitively up at him. "What are you doing with her?"

"Am I not allowed to have any fun, Mimzy, my dear?"

Slowly, the cogs within her mind whirled. Her glare disappeared, concern replacing it. "Are you sleeping with her?"

His smile became strained. "Now, now; I don't think that's any of your business."

Mimzy let it go and slunk away, but her words got under his skin. Not long after that, you'd come back into the main floor, and the final, cataclysmic domino fell.

That makeup on your face sparked some sort of territorial reaction within him. Someone had desecrated your face. No, he hadn't lied at the start of the night when he complimented you. In fact, he was relieved you hadn't made yourself up when he came to the door. You were a breath of fresh air compared to the scum that frequented the clubs. But seeing you come out, all traces of innocence erased, it made him more angry than he'd ever been.

His bloodlust reared its ugly head. He could hardly keep himself in check. It was all he could do to stay planted there and not haul you out into some back alley to rip your throat out. But, Alastor wasn't unreasonable. He knew it wasn't your fault. The whole evening you'd been a complete doll. No, the blame laid entirely on the Hill twins.

He hadn't heard a thing you said. All he could think about was bathing in their blood, gutting them from end-to-end. Really, it was a wonder he hadn't harmed you when he walked you home.

Dawn approached, the sun beginning its peak over the horizon. Most of New Orleans was just now getting to bed, while others were beginning to rub the sleep from their eyes to ready for a day of toil. He didn't have much time to get this done. All the same, it excited him having such a narrow window to get this done.

Alastor slips from the bushes and slithers up the fire escape. His footsteps were nearly inaudible, his person a mere shadow. There was no need to rush. They'd all know what he'd done in a few hours time.

He stops at his prey's window, curtains drawn back to afford a better view into the apartment. The lights were out, and everyone inside laid asleep.

Withdrawing his knife from his pocket, Alastor jimmies the lock on the window. It unlocks with a soft click, his gaze darting towards the glass again, just in case the sound woke the unsuspecting party. When no one stirred, Alastor opens the window. On the couch, not five feet from where he stood, laid his sleeping prey.

He towers over the twin—he couldn’t tell which one it was, but it didn’t matter. What was that saying? It all eats the same.

Her makeup had smudged from a night of activity. His imposing figure casting a shadow over her face. She would be no where near as satisfying as his other meals; but these were hard times and he had to make due.

Alastor drew close, and slashed his knife against her jugular before she could scream.

Chapter Text

It's been days since you last saw Alastor.

Now, it's not as if you don't understand he's a busy man - that would be silly. But, you'd gone from seeing him everyday ... to nothing. No note, no nothing. You hadn't been able to catch his show, either. Every time you tried, Mr. Shattuck or one of the other waitresses beat you to the punch and picked another station.

Maybe if you'd been dating him, you could justify the heartbreak you felt. You could justify the many tears shed over him, over how stupid you'd been; but, the rub was, you weren't dating. You weren't sure you were even friends. And, if you had been friends, you certainly weren't anymore. Not after the stunt you pulled at the club.

Alastor had been so angry. It didn't sit right with you, at first, his little out burst on the walk home. In fact, there were pale bruises on your skin left behind from where he squeezed you a bit too hard. It scared you - he scared you, more than you liked to admit. But ...

Maybe Alastor was right? You had felt like a little kid playing dress-up. (A small part of you had, at least.) Maybe you tried too hard? Alastor was a man of the world. He knew the way things should be and how people should act. You certainly weren't acting like yourself.

If only you could talk with him.

The pain in your heart infected your waking life. You merely went through the motions when you were at work, not talking more than you had to, not minding the ache in your feet, not really seeing. You might as well have been a ghost. (Oh, if your Daddy saw you mooning over some boy like this, he'd rip you a new one.)

The days past in a haze, bleeding into one another. Many-a-time, you thought about seeking him out. He'd be at the radio station, right? It was a smart thought, but you never had the chance to test out your theory. You were always working too late, or covering for Mary, your co-worker, when she had an emergency at home. By the time you got off, Alastor would've been out of the station for a while, and it's not like you know where he lives.

It was one such day, with you caught up in your own head, that Mr. Shattuck pulls you aside. It wasn't out of the ordinary for your boss to do so, often times he'd be asking you to stay late while he rushes off to some meeting or pick-up across town.

"It'll only take a second," he assures you. He motions to an empty table off to the side and you pull out a chair, smoothing your uniform as you sit. He waits until your only customer leaves, then speaks. "How's your Daddy?"

"Fine, sir," you say. "I got a letter from him the other day. Says they're almost done with the new track and he'll be home anytime."

Letters from your Daddy are a weekly thing. He's gone more than he's with you, and so at times it feels more like you're pen-pals rather than blood. You were excited for him to come home. It'd been nearly three months since you last saw him. Thanksgiving was in a few weeks. You hoped he'd be able to stay for that.

He nods understandingly, then asks, "So the railroad, they've been treatin' him well."

You give a weak smile. "As well as they can, sir, with the times and all."

"That good." Mr. Shattuck rubs the back of his neck, glancing to the side as a couple of customers come in. "Actually, it's precisely why I wanted to talk with you."

Before you can try and excuse yourself to go and take the customers orders, another waitresses scurries out from the kitchen, notepad in hand.

You blink, returning to the conversation at hand. "Sir?"

"Listen, kid. I've been doin' my best to keep the diner runnin' - I know you understand that. You've been a real help in doin' so, too. Picking up extra shifts, covering for Mary when she's gotta leave cause of the kids, but ..."

"But, Mr. Shattuck -" You're interrupted.

"I gotta let you go. I'm sorry."

You fall back in the seat, feeling as though the wind's been knocked out of you. This was out-of-the-blue. You wracked your brain, trying to remember anything you might've done to bring this about. "Is this ... Is this 'cause I asked off early the other day?"

"No. Of course it ain't." He sighs, "In fact, you askin' off the other day made me realize that I rely on you too much. You're young, you shouldn't be spendin' every hour of every day in here."

"I'll cut my hours!" you interject. "You don't have to pay me as much. I'll only work the evenings. You won't even see me until three o'clock, okay? Just please, don't fire me."

"Kid, you know your pay is half of what it used to be." He gave you a pitying look, "Ya can't work for free, it ain't right. And I ... I just can't keep you on anymore. There ain't enough customers, or money, right now."

"Please." It's the only thing you can say.

He shakes his head. "It wasn't an easy choice between you and Mary, you gotta believe me. But, you're just a kid, yeah? You're still livin' with your Daddy and you've told me before how well they pay him. Mary ain't got no one but herself and them kids. It ain't fair of me to throw her out like that. You understand, right?"

Mr. Shattuck's word was final. You couldn't bring yourself to say anything more. (If you did, you knew you'd sound selfish. He was right, Mary needed the job more than you.) It seemed naive of you, now, to be sulking about some boy.

"I understand," you say. "I won't be in your hair any longer."

The two of you ambled to his office (a small broom closet Mr. Shattuck had crammed a table and chair into) where he wrote you your last cheque and sent you on your way.

You leave the diner, feeling more empty than you ever had in your entire life. You don't want to go home. It's so lonesome there. And being alone ... that'll only make you feel worse than you already do. Your feet unconsciously move, leading you through the sleepy streets of town. You pass by the beggers, little children holding cups, their voices calling out to you and asking for change. You want to help, but you can't spare any money.

It's only when you stop, you realize where you've wandered to. The broadcasting station. Oh, treacherous feet, you chide. And yet, this could be your chance. You hadn't seen him in days, (and the ache in your chest seemed more prominent now that you didn't have work to distract you), maybe you could make things right.

The lobby is small, with a thread-bare couch crammed into the corner, and a desk in the other. The place smells stale, like old cigarettes and coffee. There's a man at the desk, whose eyes haven't left you since the moment you walked in. They're curious and a little annoyed.

You're debating what to say, when he speaks, "Can I help you, little girl?" He narrows his eyes, curiously. "You lost?"

You squeeze your coat tighter around you. "Is ... is Alastor here?" you ask meekly.

There's a beat of silence. Then, the man tips his head back, as if something dawned on him. His annoyance is covered up with an oily smile. "I'm afraid you can't meet with the Radio Man at this time."

"Is he busy?" You glance at the hall adjacent to you, no doubt where the studios were.

"Oh, very busy," he assures you. Something about his voice, though, doesn't seem genuine. "He's got all that reporting to do and stuff. But, thanks for stopping by. Al always appreciates his fans."

"Oh, no." You shake your head, "We know each other."

He smiles, mirth dancing in his eyes. "I'm sure you do. But, like I said, he's very busy right now. Why don't you run along back to school, yeah?"

You almost correct him, but the fight within you dies instantly. You were much too exhausted. "Can you at least tell him I stopped by?"

"Mhm." The man isn't looking at you anymore. Instead, he's gathering up a pile of papers on his desk and tucking them in the crook of his elbow.

"Don't you need my name?"

But, he's already walking away, and you're left alone in the cramped lobby. You sniffle a little, wishing that a hole would open beneath you and swallow you up. You push the station's door open hard and run away before you have full-blown breakdown.

Of course Alastor wouldn't want to see you. He hadn't been to the diner. It was a stupid move, going inside like that. He probably told all the guys in his studio about little, naive you. They probably shared a laugh when he regaled them with your evening out together, what an embarrassment you'd been.

You didn't stop running until you reached home. By that time, it was too late. The tears had already started to fall, hot and angry. You reached the stoop, tears blurring your vision, and reach for the handle. But, you stop, drawing your hand back quick. The door ...

Your front door was open. It was just a crack, not enough to notice from the street. In fact you nearly hadn't caught it at all, being stuck in your head as you were. You frown, taking a little step back. You were nearly positive you'd shut it; but, it was hard to be certain. These past few days you've been going through the motions, and in that time you've caught yourself doing some strange things. (Like, misplacing things, or forgetting to make the bed. Little stuff.)

But, the longer you think on it, you know you hadn't left it like this.

It's not like you can just stand there forever, though. It's chilly outside this time of year. You briefly wonder if you should get a neighbor to come in with you, just in case; but, shake the idea off. Everyone's either at work or drunk, and the ones who aren't are caring for children. You straighten your back, head held high. You could do this on your own. You are, after all, a strong and capable woman.

Though, having some kind of protection just in case couldn't hurt.

You nudge the door open, the hinges squeaking. The curtains were all opened, allowing a vast amount of light to filter in. You hadn't left it like that. You're quick to reach over and grab a paperweight off the table near the door, holding it close.

"Hello?"

No response.

Your steps are muffled by the worn carpet beneath your toes. In the living room, you notice a few items out of place. The blankets were rumpled. Food laid across your counter haphazardly; whoever had come in hadn't felt the need to clean up. Someone was definitely in the house. Or had been, but left quickly.

You strained your ears, listening for anything and everything. Your grip tightens on the paperweight.

The lock wasn't broken on the front door, you noted. That didn't make sense. And, on the little table, sat the spare key. No one would know where that was hidden! No one except maybe your Daddy and ...

Suddenly, a figure emerges from the hall. You scream, dropping the paperweight as you jump back. Your knees connect with the sofa and you fall onto your rear. But, fear doesn't last very long.

"Lord!" You lay your hand over your heart, feeling it beat rapidly in your rib cage. "You scared me half to death!"

"I wasn't trying to, sweetheart." Your Daddy chuckles, drying his hair with a towel. "I didn't expect you'd be home this early."

You elected to ignore his comment.

"I called out," you said accusingly.

He shrugs. "I'm sorry. Couldn't hear you."

A part of you wanted to stay mad, but after the day you had (really, past couple of days) you couldn't help but feel an enormous relief seeing your Daddy. You rush forward and hug him, burying your head in his chest. He returns your hug instantly. His arms had always been so strong, so supportive.

It was as if a dam burst and all the emotions you'd been trying to repress burst forth. You sob into his chest, burrowing as deep as you could into his shirt.

"Hey, now." He smooths his hand along the back of your head. "What's wrong?"

"I'm sorry, Daddy." Your words are broken up by hiccups, your shoulders shaking. "I'm so sorry."

He chuckles, "What on Earth do you have to be sorry about, sweetheart?"

"My job." You pull back but you can't meet his eyes. "I was laid off. I'm sorry, I tried. I really tried to keep it."

His eyebrows knit together in concern. Not for the loss of money (though that was something to be worried about), but because the effect it had on you. He pulls you back to his chest and gently shushes you. "It'll be all right, sweetheart. It'll be all right. We'll make it just fine."

You brought your Daddy a bag of ice to put on his sore back. Working on the railroad was taking a toll on his body; and though he tried to hide it, you knew he was in pain.

"Thank ya, sweetie." He takes the ice appreciatively and shifts it to his lower back with a grimace. "I'm starved. Do we have anything for dinner?"

"Sure. There's a recipe for stew I heard over the radio. Been wanting to try it out." You glance back at the ice box, knowing you have a couple of things in there that couple be useful. "Sound good?"

"Sounds perfect."

You go into the kitchen and seek out that little recipe card you knew was laying around. Your Daddy leaned over and switched on the radio, flipping through the stations before he landed on one he liked. It wasn't much interesting to you, just the news. (You preferred music stations.) The two of you fell back into a comfortable rhythm, your Daddy making a few comments here-and-there about what the host was saying. You hum in acknowledgement.

You've just put the ingredients in the pot, when a knock at the door disturbs your peace. Daddy tries to get up, but you beat him to it. "I'll get it. You keep an eye on the stew."

He grumbles reluctantly, but there's a teasing glint in his eye. You share a smile as you pass one another.

When you open the door, you're taken aback. "Alastor?"'

He stands on your little stoop, his eyes wild behind those round frames of his. He looks disheveled; his shirt's rumpled, his jacket slung around his shoulders. That's when you notice the sling around his arm.

"Alastor." You glance behind you before stepping out into the cold night and shut the door behind you. "What happened? Are you all right?"

"You weren't at the diner."

"No," you agree, "No, I was laid off. But, Alastor -"

"When?"

"Hm?"

There's an impatient look in his eye that unsettles you. "When were you laid off?"

"Oh." You rub your neck, feeling shame rise up in your belly like before. "This afternoon. Mr. Shattuck couldn't afford to keep me on anymore. He's barely keeping the diner open as is. But, Alastor, your arm."

He glances down at the sling and then to your hand, which overs inches above his injured arm, too afraid to touch him. "Not to worry, my dear. It was just a hunting accident. You should see the other guy!"

Your fingertips barely skim the fabric, in pity and in awe. Alastor was invincible in your eyes, and seeing him injured felt immoral. "Are you okay? It doesn't hurt too much, does it?"

Alastor smiles, "Right as rain. Honestly, I wouldn't be wearing this ol' thing if it wasn't for the concern of a friend. A buck charged me and knocked my arm right out of its socket! Quite the surprise, let me tell you. But, I'm fine. A little bruise never stopped me before!"

So, you think to yourself, He's a hunter. This new piece of information thrills you. Alastor was always so private about his life, his likes and dislikes, his hobbies. You couldn't help but take it as a win. And yet ...

"Is that why I haven't seen you?" The words slip out before you can stop them. "I mean, you've been missing. Or, I've been missing yo-" You stop abruptly, biting your lip, "Was this injury what kept you away?"

Alastor's gaze softens with your stammering. He has a funny sort of look about him, like he wants to laugh but won't. "I'm sorry about that, my dear. I didn't mean to worry you."

Alastor reaches out and strokes your chin. You lean into his touch, feeling embarrassed with yourself. And here you thought he'd been avoiding you just because he hadn't come in. That was incredibly selfish. You hadn't once wondered if he was sick or injured. You'd made the whole situation about you! Oh, you should've known better.

"I ... I stopped by your work earlier." You bite your lip shamefully. You'd made a fool of yourself once already, you can't possibly do anymore damage. "I don't know why. I was just so upset and ... and, well, the first place I thought to go to was to you. You always know the right thing to say and ... I missed you."

His smile broadens into that crescent-moon grin you've come to know. He cups your cheek, guiding you to look into those unfathomable eyes of his. "What has humanity done to have a gem like you walk among them? You warm my heart, dear girl."

Alastor leans in, and for a moment you believe he's going to kiss you, but he doesn't. "I'm sorry I missed you, I haven't been into the station once since I sustained this. Truly, I've been bored all cooped up in my home. Solitary is not meant for me."

"Oh." That man you spoke with hadn't let on to that at all. Just another thing to feel foolish about. "Well, I'm sorry about your arm. I hope it feels better soon."

"Being with you, my dear, is a balm to the soul." His hand drops from your face to rest on your shoulder. "Why don't we go inside. Whatever you're making smells wonderful!"

Alastor starts for the door knob. In a panic, you shove him back hard enough that he stumbles off the stoop. "But we can't!"

He looks at you, completely bewildered; but, it soon turns to amusement. "Why's that? Got something in there you don't want to show me?" When you don't answer, his grin falters. "Someone?"

You don't know why that makes you feel guilty. You glance through the front window, "It's my Daddy. He just got back today. I haven't seen him for months. Really, I'd love to introduce the two of you! It's just ..."

Alastor nods understandingly. "You don't want him to get the wrong idea. I understand. It does look rather scandalous, me visiting you, my dear girl, at this time of night." You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand to silence you. "Say no more. I'll come again in the morning! I'll make a proper first impression, for that Daddy of yours, dazzle him with my charming personality."

"Thank you for understanding, Alastor."

He bows in an overly dramatic fashion. You start to giggle, and that's when the door behind you is opened.

You feel your Daddy before you see him. He lays a heavy hand on your shoulder. "Sweetheart ... Who's this?"

You scramble back, attempting to put as much distance between you and Alastor as possible. You know you need to answer him. His mind was surely running rampant, getting the wrong idea (just like you knew he would if he saw Alastor.) Your mind goes blank, your tongue like led.

It's Alastor who saves the moment, smiling a charming smile at your father. "Hello, sir! So sorry to be intruding on your family time. I only wanted to make sure your daughter made it home safely."

Daddy regards him coldly, then turns to you with a stern parental look. "Who is he?"

You swallow hard. "This is Alastor, a good friend of mine. We met at the diner. He's been walking me home after all my shifts."

"I was worried when I didn't see her at the diner earlier," adds Alastor.

You dad lays his hand on your shoulder protectively. "She's been laid off."

"She just told me. Very unfortunate, I'm so sorry."

"So she won't be needing your services anymore."

Alastor's smile tightens; but, he laughs all the same. "Of course not."

Your Daddy doesn't laugh. Instead, he turns to you and says, "Sweetheart, go check the stew, will you? I don't want it to burn."

You open your mouth to protest, but Alastor meets your gaze and nods reassuringly. "We wouldn't want your hard work to go to waste."

You squeeze past your father, back inside the house, watching Alastor's figure shrink slowly. Your Daddy slams the door shut, and you scramble to the window, hiding behind the lacy curtains. Their voices were muffled, but not badly.

"Tell me, what's your name, son?"

"Alastor."

You can hear your Daddy scoff, "Your full name."

"Well," Alastor chuckles, sheepishly, "I don't believe in having a family name if you don't have any family. I'm just, Alastor. Pleasure to meet you, sir."

You dare to take a peek and see your father scowl. "Well 'Just Alastor', don't you think you're a little old to be messing around with my daughter."

For a brief moment, Alastor's eye darts towards the window and you jump, hiding behind the curtains once more. "I assure you, sir, I was only keeping her safe. My intentions were entirely pure."

"No man your age has entirely pure intentions when dealing with eighteen-year-old girls."

"Hm. To each their own."

You can't make yourself listen anymore. You're hurt by your Daddy's accusations. How could he say such things?! He didn't even know Alastor...

All the same, you're aware of an uneasiness that's settled in your gut. It was something about Alastor's expression ... You push all that aside and hurry back into the kitchen.

It’s late, but you can’t sleep.

At dinner, your Daddy's good mood dampened. The visit from Alastor was a stain on a previously happy night. He didn't say much while you ate, only at the end of the meal did he stop you from getting up I don’t want you spending time with that man, he said, He’s dangerous.

Oh, you wanted to laugh. Alastor? Dangerous? He wouldn't hurt a fly!

But, knowing your Daddy didn’t like Alastor made you question yourself. Daddy had always been a good judge of character (though you hated to admit it at times). At the end of the day, you respected him more than anyone else in your life. Even more than Alastor.

Oh, but Alastor ... He made you feel alive. Like a real woman.

And so, your inner turmoil continued in a never ending loop.

Just as you were about to force yourself to sleep, gentle tapping roused you from your bed.

You hold your breath and wait, ears straining. The tap comes again. You push out of your bed and creep along the aging floor, hoping you don't wake your daddy in the other room. As soon as you peel back the curtains, you're startled.

It's Alastor. He's barely a shape in the dark, but his eyes glow like a cat's, and that grin of his is stretched wide. You're momentarily terrified, but gather your bearings and throw the latch. He crawls in easily, tucking his injured arm against his chest.

“Alastor!” you whisper-shout; half-pushing him back out into the cold, half-pulling him into your chest. “What are you doing here?!”

“I couldn't leave my best girl without a proper farewell!"

You shush him. His voice was much too loud for this time of night. "That's-!"

Alastor steps past you, surveying your room with interest. "I don’t think your father likes me much."

You glance over your shoulder to your bedroom door. “He really won’t like you if he finds you here.”

“It's like I said, my dear." Alastor turns over his shoulder and winks. "Besides - with our visit cut short earlier, I never got to tell you why I really came.”

Your lips part. This is it, the moment when he confesses his undying love for you! He’s already so close, again, towering above your modest stature with intent. Your hand trails along his chest. Alastor inhales shakily from your touch.

"Why did you come, then?"

He studies you, those cat-like eyes so intimidating in the dark. Finally, he speaks, “Gertie and Mae are dead.”

You blink. That certainly wasn’t what you expected. And then, his words dawn on you. Your hand drops from his chest and you step back.

“What?” You hardly recognize your own voice. It sounds distant in your own ears. “That's not possible. We just ... we just saw them the other night!”

"I couldn't believe it myself when I first heard," he muses.

Your hand goes to your chest, as if you can somehow quell the erratic beating of your heart. "When did this ...?"

“The police discovered their bodies this morning," he says, "but, the medical examiner believes they might’ve been dead for several days prior.”

Several days... That could't be! You'd just seen them at the club. That was several days ago, and they'd been very much alive!

"The girls still had on their formal get-up." Alastor's voice seems far away, too, almost as if he were down a tunnel. "They must have just gotten home from Mimzy's. A real shame..."

“Oh, my God.” You stumble back, collapsing onto your bed. That night. How was that even possible? Maybe they drank something bad, or had an overdose! Those types of deaths were common in the party scene, and the twins had seemed like the type... "How did it happen?"

Alastor wasn't looking at you anymore, too busy playing with your knickknacks. "The police's primary suspect is the New Orleans Ripper."

You feel faint. "The serial killer? But I thought he hadn't been in the city!"

"Every one thought so," Alastor chuckles, "but it seems our man has expanded to broader hunting grounds."

You didn't want to believe it, but Alastor was never wrong. You squeezed your eyes shut, in a vain attempt at comfort. If he was in the city, now, what if he came after you (or, Heaven forbid, Alastor) next! But, then, you felt rather selfish. After all, this horrible act hadn't been done unto you. It was someone else's misfortune. There was someone out there with a real reason to grieve, to feel afraid.

When you open your eyes again, you see Alastor wasn't playing anymore; but, instead, watching you with a guarded expression. “I’m so sorry, Alastor. This must be weighing on you something awful. I know they're your friends.”

“Aquatints, really.”

"But, still." You sigh, rubbing your forehead. "What an awful way to go ..."

Alastor hummed. "The working theory at the moment is that our man must've watched them for some time, then followed them home." You shiver. Could that mean ...? Had the killer been at the club, too? Oh, God! What if you'd seen him?! Alastor continued, oblivious to your fear. "The mutilation matched that of his previous victims. Throats slashed, cut from pelvis to sternum. He gutted them.

"They died from exanguination. (That's just a fancy word for blood loss, my dear.) And then ... he carved out their hearts."

An overwhelming wave of nausea came over you. You quickly clasped your hand over your mouth, holding in the dinner that threatened to come up. "I think I'm going to be sick."

With several, great strides, Alastor was at your side in an instant. He knelt to the ground, his gloved hand brushing against your forehead lovingly. "I apologize. I shouldn't have gone into such detail. Sometimes I forget your only a girl."

The two of you sat like that for a moment until finally the nausea passed. Alastor combed his fingers through your hair, watching you with a curious expression. He guided you forward, until your head rested against his shoulder. You breath him in, relishing in his scent, letting it ground you once more.

"How ... How can someone do something like that to another person?" You cuddled closer, until you rested in the crook of his neck. "It's barbaric. To just ... take a life like that. I can't even imagine what would drive a person to do it."

Alastor purses his lips. "Why does anyone do anything? Sheer, absolute boredom."

You pull back and stare at him incredulously. "But, you don't just kill someone because you're bored. That's ... That's just evil."

"Maybe you don't." The way he said that sends a shiver down your spine. Alastor plays with the ends of your hair, but his focus was thousands of miles away. "You can't answer for everyone in the world, my dear. We're all made differently. We all tick differently."

"But, Alastor," you gently touch his injured arm. "You don't kill anyone."

His eyes glide across your face, full of mischief and hunger. "Now, now ... You can't be so sure of that, now can you, my dearest darling?"

Your voice catches in your throat, and, for a moment, you feel very afraid. Almost like you had the evening he walked you home from the club. Some kind of change had come over him, and though he was smiling (my God, you'd never noticed just how sharp his teeth were until now) there was something off about it.

"A ... Alastor?"

He chuckles quietly. "All I mean to say, is that you never really know someone. You see a version of me no one else sees. I see a version of you no one else sees. We're all liars, my dear." He runs the pad of his thumb across your lower lip. His glove is so close, that the metallic scent of blood wafts into your nose. Years of hunting must've infected those gloves with that smell.

"Alastor," you whisper, leaning away from his touch. "I don't like this subject. Can we please not talk about it anymore?"

His eyes flash, "Are you scared?"

"Yes." You turn away from him and stare at the wall. "All this talk of killing and - and what not is making me feel sick. I won't be sleeping for a week."

Alastor exhales, his grin softening. He retracts his hand to lay it across his heart. "I'm sorry, this was rather ghoulish of me. Your head should be filled with pretty thoughts, not grisly murders. It's just, I wanted you to be in-the-know. Especially now that you have so much free time on your hands."

You swallow hard. Oh, right. With you out of a job, it would be rather easy for someone to get you alone now. You cringe. Despite his best efforts, you weren't comforted at all.

"I hope he's caught," you say, "I don't think I'll feel safe until he's off the streets."

"Nothing will happen to you," he assures you, "Not while I'm here."

In the other room, the wall clock chimes the hour, one o'clock. You hadn't realized it was that late. Alastor seems to come to the same conclusion and stands to his feet. He draws you up, too, and the two of you walk towards the window.

Alastor perches himself on the windowsill, but he doesn't release your hand. "I think it's time for me to go, my dear. I won't keep you up any longer."

"Okay."

He glances back at your bedroom door. "I'm not sure when we'll see each other next. Not with your father around."

"I know." You sigh despondently. "Daddy's stubborn. I don't agree with what he says about you. I'll sneak out if I have to"

"You're Daddy's girl, aren't you?" His tongue teases the corner of his mouth. You blush, looking away. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with that. You obey him for now, okay? Sneaking out will only make him angrier, so you need to stay put. I'll come to you. Will you do that for me?"

You squeeze his hand. Oh, if only you could hold it forever. "Of course, Alastor."

"Good girl."

You hate how your heart flutters at his praise. Doesn't he know he's only making you fall more and more in love with him? It's not fair.

He slips out the window quickly and easily. Your heart breaks a little, watching him go. What if this is the last time you ever see him? You curse your Daddy in your head. But, you remind yourself that in all great romances in history were forbidden.

Suddenly, Alastor pops his head through your window once more. "One more thing, my dear?"

You come in close. "Yes?"

Alastor moves quickly. You hadn't anticipated his move. (Sure, you had always hoped for this, but Alastor never showed any type of romantic inclination towards you, so you'd long since written off your hopes for fantasies.) His lips are against yours, and they're soft and warm and ... and you freeze. You don't reciprocate it, you can't! You stand there, wide-eyed and rigid, as Alastor kisses you. It's short and sweet, and it's over as soon as it began.

He pops back out the window and goes on his merry way. You don't move an inch.

Chapter Text

As it turned out; living without Alastor wasn't as hard as you'd thought it'd be.

Sure, your heart ached every now-and-again when you thought about his handsome face; or the fact that - had you not been fired - the two of you would've been walking home together about this time of night. And yet, it's like you said, it was only an ache. Not an earth shattering pain.

A part of you felt bad; bad because, maybe you should've felt lonesome. Maybe you should've missed Alastor more, especially after that kiss. (Oh, that kiss! Just thinking about it made you blush.) But, you didn't, partially due to your father's presence, and partially because that kiss let you know that your feelings were reciprocated.

So, for now, that was enough for you.

Daddy was a social man. He made many friends on the railroad. He liked to tell you stories about the time so-and-so went off and did something-or-other. Or when they visited That One Place and he swore every detail would be forever engrained in his mind so he could describe it to you, and maybe he'd take you one day. But, Daddy doesn't dwell too much on work when he's home. Instead, he filled that social void with community.

The neighborhood had always been friendly to one another. Sure, it wasn't pretty to look at on the outside, but the people were awfully kind. Especially now, in the midst of the country's depression.

Once a week, they'd all get together at a little church down the way and have a pot-luck. You didn't like going when Daddy was gone, it just didn't feel right. Not that the people weren't welcoming or anything, it just wasn't something you enjoyed on your own.

This was the first time in a while you'd partaken in the event.

You'd cooked the whole day with what food you had left in the fridge, and then at six o'clock sharp, you and Daddy made your way out of the house and down the road. Everyone else did the same, taking their sweet time so that they could stop and talk with neighbors along the way.

One of the men down the road noticed the two of you and called your Daddy over by name. The two of them shook hands. "I didn't know you 'er back already!"

"Came in the other day."

"Wonderful. Just wonderful. We've been missin' ya."

Someone called out for you. It was Sue, the woman that lived across the street. She was carrying a heavy looking pot that seemed to weigh her down, but she didn't complain. She bumped shoulders with you as a form of greeting.

"Hiya, honey. How've you been?"

"Oh, you know." You shrug your shoulders and leave it at that.

"Is your friend comin' over with ya?"

You frown. "Friend?"

"You know." Sue waggled her eyebrows playfully. "That dapper fella who's been glued to your arm for a couple of months now. I'd love to meet him. Say, does he happen to have a brother?"

Her voice caught the attention of your Daddy, pausing his own conversation to eavesdrop. A blush creeps along the collar of your blouse. You duck your head.

"Well ... um ... No." You glance over your shoulder, noticing how Daddy's mood soured at the mention of Alastor. "No, I'm afraid he can't make it tonight."

Sue laughs, maybe writing your reluctance off as you coquettish. "Well, that's too bad. I'll see ya in there, okay? And ask about that brother for me, will ya?"

Sue laughs as she walks away, calling out to her children.

A heavy hand lands on your shoulder, your father silently urging you to move along as well. You keep your mouth sealed shut and so does he. You just hope he doesn't hold onto this all night long.

And, thankfully, he didn't. The evening went rather smoothly after that.

Daddy checked his attitude at the door, and the two of you were welcomed inside the dingy church with open arms. One of the women directed you to where you could deposit your food, and your dad vanished somewhere with a couple other men.

You were too preoccupied with setting up to notice, anyway.

The women chatted tirelessly; most of them being mothers with a handful of young-ones to keep an eye on.

"I finally finished Jimmy's costume," said one woman. "I'm not looking forward to this trick-or-treat. Not with all that's going on in the news."

The women all shared a knowing look and your eyes darted to the little kids, who were play fighting not two feet away.

"I'm not lettin' Martha go," said another. "I can't - I don't wanna risk it."

A third hummed in agreement. "With so many people out and about, it'll only tempt fate."

"I don't want to take the kids' fun away. I say we get a group together and do it like that. There's safety in numbers, you know."

"Did you see in the paper?" asked the first, her voice lowered to a near-whisper. "He killed again."

This catches your attention. You lean in close, abandoning your job.

You keep your voice low when you ask, "When?"

"Last night," the woman answers stiffly. "Almonaster Avenue. Poor man - people thought he was a drunk, passed out on the street, until one of the cops tried to wake him."

The mothers all collectively gasped.

"How horrible," you murmur

"Do we know for certain it was him?" asked the second.

The first makes a face and glances about them to make sure the kids aren't in earshot. "The guy was carved up. Missing a liver or something like that."

The third, a catholic, makes a quick sign of the cross and shutters.

You touch your throat, a chill running through you. "How horrible," you repeat. "Just horrible."

Just then, little Martha skipped up to the group and tugged on her mother's skirts. "What's horrible?"

Everyone shuts up quickly. You return to your napkins, sorting through them idly.

"Nothing, dear."