Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

January 1933.

As she stepped out of the car, she quickly realized the sticky, moor-like ground wasn't set on letting her go easily.

If anything, she should've seen it as the dark omen it posed to be. But her heart was beating so loudly and quickly, she could hardly hear her own thoughts.

So despite the smacking, disgusting quality of every step, it was no surprise she gasped as a hand landed on her shoulder.

"Are you sure about this," his solemn voice asked, "We can still turn back."

She shook her head.
"It's too late. I can't go back. I won't leave this forest without-"

She trailed off, scared what it would do to her to say his name out loud.

"You don't even know-"
"I do," she snapped at him without meaning to, "Can any of you believe in me for once?"

A second hand softly grabbed her shoulder, turning her around to look up at her dear friend.

"I do believe you," he said softly, "Which is exactly why I think we should go. This is dangerous."

Angry tears shot into her eyes, like she was a child again. She didn't need to be told of any dangers that awaited her. In fact, she'd survived the last few years, what harm could another night do?

"I have no other choice," she whispered, "I need to get to... him. Before it's too late."

"But you're free," her friend argued back, something like panic in his eyes, "Flee the country. Go, before he pulls you in further."

Her laugh wasn't genuine.
"Was I ever," she questioned, her voice quivering, "I won't leave him. I will find him, and we will flee then. Together."

Before her friend, who looked like he was about to be sick, could answer, he was interrupted by the howling and barking of what seemed to be a pack of dogs, too close for comfort.

She didn't hesitate any longer. Determined, she dragged her feet through the mud, realizing she had probably made a bad decision regarding shoes. The deeper they ventured into the trees, the drier the ground got, and she was glad.
If she had to, she would run through these woods barefoot, getting stuck in the mud over and over, if it meant she wasn't too late.

That this wasn't the end.

She had half a mind to pray, but she couldn't bring herself to. Not anymore.

This time when her friend turned her around, she didn't even flinch.

She could barely make out his expression in the dark, but she knew he was trying to be encouraging. Positive.

"At least use this," he said as he pushed a flashlight into her hand, "I'm scared of the dark."

She appreciated that he tried to be funny. That he was here, even though she knew for a fact that he thought her a lunatic. That she had lost her mind.

And maybe, she had. Somewhere along the way. Not that it mattered now. She had given up on sanity.
But not on him. Never on him.

She turned on the flashlight, and they walked on in silence. She didn't have anything profound to say anyways. So she used all her leftover mind to figure out a logical way through the woods without knowing what to really look for.

As the forest spit them out at a small clearing that offered several ways to go, her companion, also realizing she was clueless, sighed deeply as he broke the silence.
"Do you have any clue where we're going? I don't think it's productive to-"

He didnt finish his sentence as her cone of light got stuck on a tree, which very clearly bore bloodmarks.
He inhaled sharply through his teeth.

"That way," she simply said, walking in a quicker pace now.
Maybe he didn't dare to speak as she swished her flashlight around, frantically looking for more horrible evidence.

He didn't turn and run. She didn't ask for more. In fact, she should've accepted less.

Call it foresight, but she had a feeling this wasn't going to be pretty.

What a silly, lightheaded observation. She didn't linger on the thought too long. It was hard to track the traces of blood, especially since she just couldn't tune out the horrid barking of the dogs, which seemed to get closer and somehow also be further away every other moment.

How she managed to tune out the implication of following blood traces was a mystery to her.

Suddenly, her friend pulled her close.

"Turn it off," he mumbled, "I hear something."

She didn't have time to fully process his request. She listened out of instinct, even though it seemed counterproductive.

His voice was grave. Horrified.
She had never seen him scared.

"Cops," she silently asked, and felt him shrug.

"I don't know," he honestly replied before out of nowhere, the woods fell silent. The dogs weren't barking. The wind had stopped.

As she desperately tried to get her breathing under control, she could hear another sound.

A crunch. A horrifying, wet crunch. Breathing. A mumbling that sounded too human, yet not human enough. Eerily familiar.

Her friend held her back as she tried to walk onward. She felt herself getting agitated.

It meant nothing. Maybe it was an animal after all. And if not, at least she had found what she was looking for.

Maybe she needed to see. What nightmare she had promised herself to be a part of, no matter the consequences.

She feared it wouldn't change her mind either way.

"Don't," he whispered, "Please. Spare yourself the pain."
She shook her head violently.

She would not back down. There was still time to turn it all around. To reverse the clock, to pretend all of it never happened.

They could run. They could be happy. There was no other way. She dug her claws deeply into the thought as to never let it go.

If she did, she wouldn't know what to do with herself. Her entire self had been carved open, screaming pityfully for nothing but him.
She couldn't fight it anymore. No matter what, she would not stop fighting. What was left, if not them?

Hellfire. Purgatory. Utter emptiness.
A life wasted.
As if it wasn't already.

She shuddered before the gunshot ringing through the forest reached her ears.

Both of them flinched harshly, staying close to each other, the gravity of their situation barely settling in.

Alone in the woods. With someone that had just opened fire.

She didn't know if her heart or her head was responsible for telling her to run. The only certainty she had that it was her soul determining the direction.

Only forward.

And suddenly, and strangely only now, she realized she might die in these woods tonight.

Chapter Text

September 1929.

The powder made Catherine sneeze.

"You're such a baby," Esther, her dearest friend, replied.

They hadn't known each other for long, and yet, it already felt like a lifetime. Maybe that was just what being stuck in the same hellhole did to a friendship.

She would never dare to complain about that. Especially since everything else tonight offered her many other reasons to.

Sky's the limit. And she felt inclined to be a diva.

"As if I wasn't pale enough already," she replied snarkily, "This is ridiculous. Nobody looks at our faces on stage anyways."

Esther rolled her eyes, a bright smile plastered on her face.

"So you're in a mood tonight," she commented, chuckling while continuing to do her own make up.

"Can you blame me? Club's basically empty, save for some idiots that look but don't buy. Can't stay fed from stares, last time I checked."

"Business is really slow tonight," Esther agreed, "But you really have to keep your attitude in check. Dirk didn't seem to happy with you back there."

"Oh, please," she scoffed, leaning forward to reapply her cherry-red lipstick that looked jarring in comparison to her face, "First of all, I make him a filthy amount of money. Well, at least- scratch that. Secondly, I'm still a newbie. He can let it slide, if he knows what's good for him."

"You've been her for over a year, sweetie."

She almost messed up her lipstick as the realization hit her.
Her ego, her pride, her entire sense of self suddenly deflated at Esther's remark.

That's right. It's already been a year since her last desperate attempt to feed herself.

Maybe it should make her happy, that time seemed to flow into one continious stream that made it hard to keep track.
It made it easier to sell her morals, and her body on top of that. And it was still better than crawling back home. She would've rather died than do that.

Out of habit, her hand snaked into her coat pocket, dragging her fingertips along the familar wooden pearls.

Catherine looked up at her reflection, her eyebags even shining through the heavy make up.

She would get through this, she promised herself. She was her own woman that made her own choices. She was able to sing- semi-regularly. She would get out, and chase her dreams. There was still time.

One slump didn't mean she was giving up. Even if said slump had been going on for over a year. She needed to have faith. And determination. The rest would figure itself out along the way, surely.

Esther was looking at her in the mirror, and only now did Catherine catch it.

Her expression was full of motherly concern.

Catherine had to avert her eyes. It made her miss her mother. Being taken care of.

At least she only had to take care of herself, unlike Esther, who had to feed her 4 children all by herself.

She didn't deserve Esther's pity.

Esther seemed to realize that Catherine was uncomfortable. She stood up, putting her hands on her shoulders and gave them a light squeeze, smiling.

"Oh, lighten up, sweetheart," Esther said, "We can't afford a frown today."

Catherine furrowed her brows.
"Why? Because it would stop the gawking?"

Esther tilted her head in confusion. Shortly after, her face lit up with a grin.

"What is it," she asked, a little concerned. The smile on her friends face was almost fiendish, and she felt like she was missing something.

"Did you already forget," Esther wondered, rolling her eyes playfully before shaking Catherine a little, "The new landlord is gonna pay us a visit."

She widened her eyes, but only for a moment. Then, she tried covering in up by leaning forward, pretending to perfect her eye make up.

She had actually forgotten. She didn't know how, or why, since she'd been worried about it for weeks.

Since tonight might be the night they were all gonna lose their jobs. And as much as she hated this place, she liked having a roof over her head. Even if it was leaking.

In that exact moment, the band decided to get their instruments ready. Her dramatic lean was accompanied by the miserable toots and squeaks of an instrument before properly warming up.

Strangely, she didn't want to show her worry. Esther already had enough on her plate. Being deceitful about her feelings, which was basically lying, didn't feel good regardless.

Although- she was certain Esther knew, too. And just tried to chase the looming, dark cloud over them away by other means.

She didn't look at Esther as she spoke.

"So," she spoke up a little sourly, "Should I congratulate someone for making a bad investment? Some high and mighty rich man, no less?"

"Don't be like that," Esther mumbled, almost disappointed, "You know how important this is."

Esther sat back down next to her, a heavy sigh leaving her body.

Her heart sank. She didn't want to be rude. Especially not to Esther, who had taken her under her wing without ever asking questions.

Before she could apologize, the door flew open.

"You're on in 5," Dirk called gruffly before smashing the door behind him.

To think that this man could be charming if he wanted. Catherine scoffed.

Esther looked a little lost, probably reading Dirks unusual, even ruder behavior as a bad omen.

"Anyways," Catherine spoke up, "What's his deal, then? Who could possibly be interested in a ruin like this?"

Esther perked up immediately. It seemed her distraction had worked.

Esther loved gossip. The juicier, the better. And judging from the look on her face, it was about to get good.

"Dirk wouldn't tell me no name," Esther told her, "But I know that he is young, and handsome. And a radio host, if the rumors are true."

Now it was Catherines turn to perk up.

She remembered her rebellious teen years, when she would run to the neighbors to secretely listen to the music broadcasts her parents thought were demonic. Especially Jazz. They didn't like the thought of this devilish music loosening screws in their daughters brain, and did it everything to prevent it.

Well, they had failed. Catherine had been in love with it ever since.

It sounded like what she thought freedom should feel like. An anchor in a sea full of chaos.

She almost smiled. It felt like an eternity ago. Now, she couldn't even afford a radio. Much less get on the radio herself, even though it had never stopped being a dream of hers.

Esther poked her. Clearly, she had zoned out for a moment too long.

She laughed to rid herself of any awkwardness.

"Well, my point still stands," she croaked, "What wants a guy like that to do with the likes of us?"

Esther shrugged.
"If he's on the radio, chances are he likes music."

Catherine snorted.
"We're in New Orleans. He could get that anywhere, and without all the... criminal activity going on in here. Why not turn us out immediately?"

As much as she hadn't wanted to bring it up, it was just too strange. This whole thing basically reeked of trouble.

Esther smiled at her conspiratively.
"Well, maybe he wants to be coerced to let us stay."

Catherine felt uneasy.
"I don't know if-"

The band played their introductory jingle, and both women shot up immediately.

Esther spoke quickly over the animated voice of the guy announcing them.

"Stop worrying so much," she softly suggested while not so softly making sure Catherine's dress sat right, "Put on your prettiest smile. Be a siren. You can be seductive, if you feel like it. So you better try your damn hardest."

She her friend the smallest, mysterious smile she could muster.

"Maybe he's not the sinful type," she argued teasingly, even though she had to admit, talking like that still hurt something deep inside her soul. She chose not to chase the feeling, if she was about to be worse anyway.

Esther smiled at her, not gracing her with an answer before winking and disappearing into bright stage light and mediocre clapping.

Chapter Text

It was a shame that stage lighting made it very hard to see anything that wasn't right in front of your eyes.

It also had the power to melt you into a puddle. But that wasn't important now.

The only reason she didn't revel in it for once was because today, she actually wanted to see something.

Or rather, someone.

Though, 'handsome' and 'young' weren't good characteristics to recognize someone, despite the fact their usual crowd was neither.

Of course she was curious; it sounded all like a big mystery.

It could be fun, if you forgot about the fact that this night would very much decide her fate.

She decided not to deepen that thought, and consequently her fear of the future.

Maybe Esther was right. Maybe the best she could do was sing her heart out.

So she did. She was the most seductive prostitute this side of the city.

At least she tried to. It didn't feel good.

Catherine was in no position to be picky about the songs she got to sing. She was a failing artist, she should've been happy to get to sing at all.

But all the songs they got to sing were so airheaded and silly. Suggestive enough to fool men into thinking it was for them, without any actual weight to what was being sung.
It made her hate love songs. And made her smile hurt the longer she had to fake it.

Inbetween songs, when the crowd was applauding with mild entertainment, she felt Esther's elbow poke her ribs.

"There," she mumbled through her teeth.

She looked around, only able to make out Dirk in the audience, who looked slightly annoyed. Catherine didn't know why, and suspected it had something to do with them sneakily trying to look around.

He knew them well enough to notice.

She grew frustrated and was only saved by the fact that this was her last song.

And she had almost forgotten that she would be alone.
This song didn't need backing vocals. It was probably the only song she really enjoyed, but it was hard to do so if curiosity was eating away at you.

Esther threw her another look before exciting the stage, leaving her almost frustrated because no matter what she did, she just couldn't spot who Esther was trying to point her towards.
Ususally, she wasn't as blind.

She did her best to keep up the seductive aura Esther had advised her to have. Still, she was glad as the mediocre clapping started up again and she knew that it was over.
As she got out of her usual, humble-seeming bow, she caught Dirk trying to silently catch her attention.

The looks he threw her were intensly annoyed, his eyes telling her something to the extend of "get your ass back here".

She knew that look all too well.

Catherine surpressed the urge to roll her eyes and disappeared backstage as quickly as possible.

She tried to hurry, but since Dirk didn't want them to wear the fancy stage dresses outside, he had already picked his poison. It was hell to get out of these by yourself.

For reasons she couldn't quite grasp, she felt herself getting more and more nervous. Her hands shook as she fastened her stockings, and her heart was beating as she decided to do away with another dress, not keen on agitating Dirk too much.

She slipped into one of the fancier robes, deciding that should be enough. Catherine still felt hot. Besides- what a waste to dress yourself when you would get peeled out of them again anyways.

Of course it didn't feel good, to walk out in almost no clothes. Some part of her would never get used to those eyes on her. The hungry stares.

But they would happen either way. If anything, today was the perfect oppurtunity to be enticing.

This time, it wasn't hard to spot what she was looking for.
Or rather, who.

Dirk was easily spotted, thanks to his beet-red head that made him look like he was about to explode. Esther was beside him, angled like she was ready to jump in front of Dirk, should he lose it and attack the man standing opposite of him.

First, Catherine could only see him from behind, and she already questioned how she managed to overlook this man.

He was tall, and colorfully dressed. Impeccably, too. She could see how well-made and fitted his clothes were.

As she joined the group with a pleasant smile meaning to overshadow her nagging curiosity, she finally managed to take a look at him. And felt nothing but surprise.

Maybe she shouldn't have been. Of course Esther had told the truth, and Catherine had never questioned it. Still, the fact that he was truly very, very handsome staggered her. So much so that at first, she was devoid of any words. Or, any manners.

His bright, unchanging smile distracted her. Luckily, he didn't seem to mind that she'd suddenly forgotten how to talk.

He extended a hand towards her, his smile somehow getting even more sparkling without really changing.
Catherine didn't know whether to take a step back or forward. So she just stayed where she was, returning the gesture, feeling confused for no reason at all.

"Alastor. Pleasure to be meeting you, quite a pleasure," the man said, in a way that was so rehearsed it almost made her feel queasy.

Esther raised her brows, clearly taken aback by the casual use of a first name.

The people coming here were rarely well-off, which is exactly why they felt the need to be respected in such a way even more. It was rare that someone didn't.

Before she could react to Esther, or even reply to the man in front of her, Dirk pulled her into an awkward side embrace, which was unusual, to say the least. He never touched her in any way, thank god. But that also meant he wasn't one to show affection.

Slowly, she got the feeling that something was very wrong with Dirk.

"This one's Cathy," Dirk cut in before she had the chance to say anything, "Quite a beauty, wouldn't you say? I picked her off the streets myself."

She surpressed the urge to shudder. She didn't like to be reminded. Of her desperation. The sheer naiveté to trust the first man who offered her comfort and a warm meal. Something that would hopefully never happen again. She had to have learned something, other than the unspeakable things.

"It's Catherine," she grumbled, deciding to leave it at that.
She hated the casual use of a nickname, and Dirk hated her complaining about it.

Him smiling his anger away looked like a strange grimace.
"You have to excuse her," he said "She isn't usually like that. Just nervous, right, Cathy?"

Catherine surpressed the urge to roll her eyes.

Alastor shifted his gaze between them curiously, very obviously choosing to ignore Dirk, adding yet another shade of red onto his face.

He turned to her.
"So, Catherine," Alastor turned his attention towards her. "Your Boss keeps evading my question quite cleverly. What percentage is your cut, really?"

The irony was so obvious, even Dirk had the mind to look offended. Though, he kept his mouth shut, stifling a forced laugh.

While she almost smiled. Not because of the irony. Because of everything else.

She knew Dirk was staring holes into her, but she did her best to ignore him. It was only fair, to be truthful.

"Thirty percent," she replied, feeling less nervous than before.

Maybe she would lose her job, but at least the way down would be fun. And drag Dirk right down with them.

Alastor seemed to consider her answer for a moment, turning to Dirk again.
"That's an awfully small percentage, isn't it?"

Dirk fumbled for words, and Catherine was too amused for her own good. Esther threw her a look that urged her to keep whatever she was thinking to herself.

"Well- without me, these girls would probably be out on the streets, I consider myself-"
"A charitable man," Alastor cut him off dryly, yet without a change in expression, "Yes, I can imagine. Yet I think, considering you work these women to the bone, they deserve at least half, or not?"

"50 percent," Dirk repeated, dumbfounded, "That would drive me out of business. Noone does that. I can't-"

Alastor interrupted him yet again, without losing a bit of composure.
"I could very well just raise your rent."

Dirk started sweating. Esther flinched. And Catherine was beginning to like this man.

"Look- I dunno what the problem is but, I'm sure we can find some sort of agreement," Dirk stuttered, "But i can do no more than 35."

"No," Alastor casually replied, "50 is a generous offer. One might say: charitable."

Catherine bit the tip of her tongue. This was getting so interesting, she almost forgot how to breathe.

"I- I don't," Dirk breathed, first exhasperated, then defeated, "I might be able to do 40."

"Done," Alastor beamed, reaching out to shake a very confused Dirk's hand, "Pleasure doing business with you."

Esther exhaled in relief, while Dirk still seemed to contemplate the violent way out.
"Does that mean we get to stay?"

She had spoken before she could think about how wise it was. Suddenly, all eyes were on her. While Esther and Dirk looked something between horrified and annoyed, Alastor looked at her more thorougly.

With his eyes squinted just a bit, it seemed more like he was assessing her. Though, not in the way she was used to; and somehow, it made her feel less and more naked than usual ever before.

Because she didn't know what he was looking for.

She averted her gaze before he answered.
"Why, we will just have to see."

After giving the least satisfying answer possible, he proceeded to excuse himself, in a way that just seemed... a little too nice.

She knew it made her look like she had dubious morals, but keeping his intentions mysterious on purpose made her feel less stoked than she was before.

Why make a point of Dirk treating them better if he still considered to just throw them out? It didn't make any sense.

Maybe it was for the better. Liking men that had power over you was foolish anyways. Her uneasiness was a good survival strategy, and it would teach her to keep her distance.

Dirk, clearly, had other ideas.

He called Alastor back before he had the chance to leave, and suddely, Dirk's fingers snaked around her arm a little too tightly, yet not enough to hurt.

"Sounds like you're still not entirely convinced of how good of a house I run," Dirk commented, talking so fast he almost stumbled over his words.

Catherine had never seen him so desperate. And she hoped it would never happen again. Because she was about to pay the price.

Alastor turned to him, tilting his head ever so slightly instead of replying.

"Why don't I show you? Give you a taste of how good my establishment is," Dirk continued, slowly gaining confidence, "Free of charge, of course."

She couldn't help but stare at Dirk, but before she could open her mouth to complain, he gave her a pinch and a look that told her he wasn't having any of it.

This would ruin her night. She hadn't made any money yet, and after the singing, men usually were more inclined to pay. To have the little songbird all to themselves.

If she spent this time not making any money, she was in trouble. Again.

Selling her morals for empty hands and an empty stomach. She got nauseous.

Still, Catherine had no choice. So she swallowed her discomfort, and put on her most convincing, seductive smile.

"Very well," she said, trying to be cheeky and mimicing his manner of speaking. "Follow me, then."

She turned to lead the way before anyone else could give her some kind of look. She felt bad, at least regarding Esther, but if she let the situation sink in too deeply, she would be lost.

Luckily, she knew the way upstairs by heart, so it wasn't an issue to close her eyes for a moment.

Sometimes she wished she could see it differently. That... doing what needed to be done with a handsome man would make it feel any better.

It was still a sin. That couldn't even be justified by survival.
Her lips moved along, muttering a silent prayer.

The only reason she knew Alastor was following her was the fact that somehow, she could feel his eyes burning right into the back of her head. Quite a weird sensation.

Catherine felt her throat tighten, and she couldn't understand why. She fought the need to cry, for some reason, and forced another smile onto her face before turning it to look back at the man following her.

As she did, goosebumps wandered all across her skin, and it wasn't because she'd had a sudden change of heart.

Without any reason why, despite her best intentions to keep her head up, to not let negative feelings consume her, an all too familiar feeling crept up inside of her as she was looking into his bright, eerily amused eyes.

Dread.

Chapter Text

Dirk really had done his best to make upstairs look as enticing and erotic as possible. It's just that his best wasn't really good.

Catherine didn't have the mind to really notice anyways. Her heart was beating, trying to figure out how to pin down someone like the man behind her. Make him want more. Despite racing thoughts, she seemed to come up with nothing.

As if that wasn't enough ground for ridicule, the door decided to get stuck once again.

So much for being enticing. She didn't even know why it surprised her. It always did that.

"I apologize," she muttered, turning her head slightly yet not enough to provoke eye contact. "It does that sometimes."

And now lying, too. Today was not a good day to have morals. Then again, was any day?

Suddenly, an arm reach out just above her. Then, another. The feeling of being caged in hit her, and for a moment, Catherine forgot to breathe.

The loud noise of the door snapping into place made her flinch.

She hadn't been aware it was out of place.

One of the arms encasing her frame disappeared as the other reached out to open the door with minimal creaking.

As if she shouldn't try to get used to it, she still couldn't quite shake the shiver rising up inside her as Alastor's face got too close for comfort as he calmly spoke near her ear.
"The hinges dislocate sometimes. It's an easy fix."

Before she could answer or even react, or asked how he could even know this, he gestured for her to enter the room, holding the door for her.

It was like she could feel her parent's disapproving glances as she entered without thanking him.

Though, in their eyes, it wouldn't change her status as ruined either way. So why bother?

Catherine sneaked past him to close the door, with which he replied by taking a step away from her.

Well, at least he had some manners. Maybe this would be easier than usual.

After another moment to collect herself, Catherine turned around and leaned against the door, smiling.
"Sit down, please."

Alastor looked around, commenting the realization that there only was the bed to sit on, with a smirk.

He sat down either way, crossing his legs elegantly.
To look this distinguished in a place like this almost felt illegal. And in truth, aggrivating. She swallowed it down in favour of putting on a show.

"Good," she purred, already feeling beside herself, "Then, we can start."

Alastor raised his brows, choosing not to reply. She hoped she wouldn't break into a sweat, and simply continued while she tried to ignore the sound of the ever-dripping faucet.

"So, you're not sure if you'll let us stay yet? How sad," she said, "But luckily, I might be able to come up with some... arguments."

"Can you, now?"
His eyebrows rose up the tiniest bit, and his voice had gotten the twinge of irony he'd used with Dirk before. She realized too late that ignoring it might've been a bad idea. Unfortunately, too late to stop her.

She got away from the door, she let the string of her gown flow through her fingers.

"Oh, yes," she cooed, her mind fighting against it like it always did. Catherine swallowed, pushing her thoughts away as she breathed: "One."

With one swift, yet gentle pull, she undid the knot tying the gown together, causing it to fall open.

His eyes scanned her up and down very quickly, and Catherine imagined his smile getting wider.

Just as she thought. Every man was swayable. Some just took a little longer.

In one elegant motion, she let the gown fall down to the floor, while slowly stepping towards him.
"Two."

She came to a stop right in front of him.

His hand reached out to trace along the boning of her lingerie.

He made a small 'tsk' sound.
"A little outdated, don't you think?"

Slowly, it got hard to ignore his lack of appreciation. His eagerness to... talk.

Maybe he was nervous, even though she had no idea why he would be.

Besides, he was right. She was wearing something that had been outdated for 20 to 30 years.

Dirk had raided many a grandmother's closet.

Her mind was wandering, and that was bad. She tried to get back into the charade, smiling widely at him.
"If you don't like it, I can always just take it off."

He looked at her, lifting a brow before he replied:
"The faucet's leaking. You and your establishment should seek to fix that. It should be fairly easy, if nothing has changed."

Catherine exhaled quickly, and also exhasperated, through her nose. She was starting to get impatient.
Still, she tried to not let it get to her. She smiled, trying to seem mysterious all while her face was slowly beginning to hurt.

"Now, now," she cooed, "I didn't get to number three."

Alastor tilted his head, maybe luckily not replying.

"This argument might take me a little longer to... explain," she said, bashfully averting her eyes before looking at him again, wide-eyed, "So, would you kindly wait with your talk of faucets until I'm finished?"

He shrugged lightly, his eyes gaining a different spark for just a moment before he gestured for her to sit down.

"Oh, please do continue. I didn't mean to distract."

Why did half of the things he said sound like a lie?

But then, she wasn't sure when she had been truthful the last time. Was she a better person, just because she felt shame over it?

She giggled, sounding like a stupid girl, just in hopes of drowning her thoughts out.

Catherine looked at the space he was pointing to, then back at him, shaking her head softly before sitting down right on top of him.

Her hands cupped his surprisingly soft face- clearly, he was shaving well, a realization that was completely irrelevant, truly- as she muttered, "Three."

She let her hands wander down his neck, grazed his upper body all while making sure her fingers grazed each and every button she came across. Not yet opening them, of course. She would take her time.
Make him go crazy, hopefully.

And for the first time tonight, she saw something in his eyes other than utter, amused confidence.
Uncertainty.

And of course, she mistook it as her scheme finally working.

Her hands came to a rest on his shoulder blades, pulling him closer.

She took her time to assess him, stare into his eyes, at his lips before angling her head and leaning down to kiss his neck.

Just as she felt herself falling into the sweet feeling of numbness she desperately relied on to get through every night. It was worrying that it had taken her longer than usual, but not surprising.

After all, she was feeling nervous. Which is why she was even more glad she was finally able to embrace the utter emptiness, the lack of any thought or feeling.
The only thing helping her survive.

Unfortunately, the sensation was short-lived, as she was catapulted right out of it.

A firm, yet gentle push with his hands pried her right off of him.

She eyed him in confusion.

"Now, I think that's quite enough," he chuckled, "You can stop this now."

Catherine didn't know what to make of his tone. Somehow, it sounded mocking, but she had a hard time admitting to it.

She needed to stay proud. On top of things. Otherwise, everything around her would slowly consume her.
"Oh, you're already getting impatient," she teased, "No worries. I can speed things up."

As soon as she touched her bodice, he shook his head.
She leaned back, and while she was frustrated, still made sure to move her hips in an alluring way on top of him.

"What do you want from me, then? You can always take the lead, you know," she replied, trying very hard not to sound annoyed. Or panicked.

Alastor grabbed her by the waist, this time more decisive than before, motioning her to stand up.

And so she did, conflicted on whether she should feel relieved or offended.

"I want you to get up and put your... robe back on," he said, something too close to disgust lacing his tone, "Nothing you could reasonably call "clothing" of course, but it'll do."

She was leaning towards offended. Still, she did as she was told, something like shame rising up inside of her.

A thought, an explanation crossed her mind, and before she could weigh her options- for example, just shutting up- she spoke up.
"Is there something wrong? If I... if I am not to your liking, I'm sure I-"

"Don't you worry," he interrupted her, "Sit down, instead of trying to find me a similarly disappointing replacement."

Catherine furrowed her brows, pulling her robe closer together.

Her eyes widened.
"Oh, so you- you do not like- that's alright," she stuttered, "I won't tell anybody."

He looked her up and down before laughing right in her face.
"You'd rather assume I prefer the company of men," he mused, "Because I refuse to engage with your kind?"

"My kind," she repeated, now truly offended. And yet somehow, still embarassed. As much as she hated her line of work, she wasn't used to being rejected, and it didn't feel good.

"Don't take it too harshly, dear. I'm sure your play-pretend strikes a nerve in other fellows."

His high and mighty attitude started to get on her nerves.
She just stared him down. Her heart skipped a beat as he stood up, switching up quickly who was staring down at whom.

"It's just that I don't appreciate bad acting," he murmured, combing a stray strand of hair behind her ear which felt entirely too intimate. "Or lying. And you're a very bad liar, Catherine."

She took a step back, but not without surpressing a shudder.

"Well, then why agree to it in the first place," she spat, "I can't leave until the half hour is over. My boss will kill me."

Alastor chuckled, and she didn't understand why. And slowly, the fact that she didn't really understand anything he said or did. She usually prided herself on reading people well, and also hiding it well, if only because it was a way to survive this hell, yet she came up with nothing.

"Calm down, please," he said, and the fact that he thought her hysterical made her even more angry, "There's other ways to entertain each other."

Catherine grabbed the fabric of her clothing so hard, it almost hurt.

"Please tell me what kind of entertainment you're referring to," Catherine asked, "As you know, I'm clearly out of options."

The dripping venom in her voice was accidental, but was nevertheless met with amusement.

Alastor seemed to think for a moment, and the end was marked with yet another ridiculous smile.

He sat down again, patting the mattress a good deal away from him.

"Sit down, and have a talk with me," he suggested, "That'll fill your half hour just fine."

"You want to talk," she stated in defeat.

"I do," he replied, "Now, would you please join me?"

She huffed, and sat down anyways, with yet another huff.
He ignored her non-compliance quite brilliantly.

"Pray tell me," he wondered, "What brought you here? I understand you like to sing, and do so quite well. But why end up here?"

She swallowed down her anger, discomfort, and anxiety.

"Thank you," Catherine started, not feeling thankful at all, "But I'd rather not discuss my reasons for being here, since you made it very clear you do not appreciate  'my kind'."

"That's not it," he shot back, "Just because I don't appreciate your services doesn't mean I don't seek to listen to you. You're the very people that run the business for your very neurotic boss. I am interested in your opinion, even if you don't think so."

Catherine didn't know what to think anymore. One of the only things making this life bearable was to depend on the carnal, animalistic traits of men. That they saw nothing but a toy, a thing to play with, in her.

She was completely on her own, and the fact that it was so uncomfortable irked her.

She couldn't speak ill of Dirk, yet Alastor seemed like he wanted the truth. What was there to do, except to lie, which he clearly made fun of.

What was there to do, other than getting defensive?

"I don't feel like telling you," she spurted out, "If you have such a problem with what we do, why not turn us out?"

"Didn't you listen to me," he asked, "There's entertainment hidden in everything."

"You sound bored," she replied, "Especially since you seem interested in the wrong kind of entertainment."

"I'm anything but bored," he chuckled, "I am, in fact, very interested in your story. If you allow me to be a part of it."

The way he explained his motives sounded clinical, almost horrible. Nothing like she was used to.

"I am still a lady," Catherine said, "I will lie about my situation."

"Believe me, I count on it," Alastor answered, "How else would you keep it entertaining?"

And with that, without ever being truthful, she started talking.

Chapter Text

October 1929.

The still unfamiliar zing of liquor paired with the steady buildup of ringing in her ears caused by the sheer volume never dying down in this place slowly made her uncomfortable.

But, the people had lots to talk about. And even more to drink, because noone would bother to check if anyone violated prohibition tonight.

Catherine had finally forced down her drink, only for Esther to smash down another right in front of her.

Whiskey. On the rocks, so it was easier to get down. Something cheap, so they could afford it.

She stared at it, wondering once again how she could've ended up in a situation like this.
Not tonight. In general.

Though, tonight was the perfect night to feel sorry for yourself. Everybody did, and everybody had a reason to.

In addition, they wouldn't stay much longer. They were headed to their favourite vaudeville tonight, and were just wasting time until the show was starting. Catherine had been excited, since one of her favourite singers was performing, yet now her excitement was slowly dwindling.

The erratic feelings of the general public that bordered on mass panic were beginning to gnaw at her.

Esther knocked on the table to get her attention.

"No complaints," she ordered, "You said it was the perfect time to drink."

"I didn't say anything," Catherine protested.

Esther smiled at her, pushed the glass closer with two fingers before brushing over the newspaper right in front of her.

"It's insanity," Esther commented, pointing at the front page.

"They're calling it 'Black Thursday'," another voice called, blowing a puff of cigar smoke right into Catherine's face, "It does have a ring to it, doesn't it?"

The voice belonged to Theo, another friend of Esther's. Catherine hadn't known him for long, but as far as she could tell, he was nice enough.

He always had a spot for them at the run-down speakeasy he worked at. And for people like Esther and her, that was better than nothing.

Besides, her sense of time was famously diluted, so maybe she'd known him for longer than she realized. Maybe soon, she could call him a friend.

She thought she'd like that very much, despite his nasty habit of smoking cigars. It reminded her of the taste of lonely men taking her to bed, making her feel like an ashtray on the inside. It also reminded her of her father, the faint smell he'd sometimes worn when things looked bad, when he secretely smoked in the shed so her mother wouldn't see.

Catherine didn't want to think about her teachings now. Not when the world was clearly succumbing to the sin of greed.

She wondered what her mother was thinking. She wondered if his father was in the shed in this exact moment, hiding out from her mother's hysteria, smoking a cigar.

Hopefully burning the house down in the process.

"Things are looking bleak," she replied, shaking off those bad thoughts creeping into her head.

The situation was already dire. There was no use in poisoning her mind even further.

Esther took another sip, smiling brightly at her.
"At least it got us out of work, eh?"

She toasted at Catherine, who relucantly returned the gesture, only to put the glass down immediately without drinking.

She needed a break. She would never get used to liquor, so she had to be careful.

If it was the alcohol itself or the guilt making her dizzy, she wasn't even sure.

"Not seeing that place for awhile might do me some good," she finally agreed, almost grumbling to the glass.

As soon as news hit about the stock market struggling, Dirk had packed his bags to leave for New York, doing damage control of money he deposited into some stock or another.

She didn't particularly care for any money schemes, much less Dirk's- but once again, their livelihoods were at stake. Only this time, not bound by some prideful prick, but several at once, playing God on Wall Street.

Worry was eating away at her, no matter how much she tried to deny it.

It meant struggle. Hunger. Desperation. Even more than usual.

Her voice sounded small as she spoke up again,
"It'll be alright, no?"

Esther's gaze softened.
"Of course," she assured her, kneading her shoulder, "Dirk's a tough one."

And, as only recently established, erratic, irritable, and nervous. Though she kept it to herself since she appreciated Esther's pick-me-up so much. And also, had no interest in talking about the person helping them see those new sides of their boss.

He was in the house, around them, in her head too much anyways, and especially tonight, she didn't feel like proving to herself how much this fact irked her.

"See it this way," Theo cut in, "At least we're all too poor to lose anything. We've got no money to invest. We hardly got any to spend."

He laughed, but it didn't sound genuine. In truth, with the exception of Catherine, they all tried very hard to appear jolly.

It made her heart hurt. That they all felt so helpless. And couldn't really show it.

In an attempt to distract herself, she pulled the newspaper towards her. Which she immediately recognized as a mistake. Just skimming the article, the dark foretellings made her stomach turn. Catherine turned the page in an attempt to escape, only to have another gloomy article catch her eye.

Catherine pointed at the picture of an older, smiling gentleman, looking questioningly at Esther.
"Isn't he-"

Esther said his name, grimly nodding, now also reading the article.

"Murdered," Theo said, "A big fish, a producer. Found in a ditch just like that. You oughta be careful in every field these days."

"What do you mean," Catherine asked.

"Almost nobody touched guys like these. In entertainment. Well, now they do. I keep reading about those types dying, every few months or so. It's odd. They're faces. They'll be missed."

"Gangs," Catherine wondered aloud.

Theo shrugged, not knowing the answer.
Esther took the newspaper away from her, folding it neatly into her bag. It was a kind gesture, to keep Catherine from worrying, but also saving the edges of the paper from Catherine's continued nervousness.

"Gangs, scroundrels, whatever," she said, "Sometime they'll be caught, and shot, and until then- big guys like these producers or whatever they call themselves don't much care for girls like us anyways. So why should we?"

Catherine shuddered. On one hand, simply because Esther's pragmatism was sometimes too rash for Catherine, on the other because it strangely reminded her of the embarassing situation she'd had just a month ago. Once again, and evidently, one too many times.

"You think they take suggestions," she wondered glumly, immediately slapping her hand in front of her mouth as soon as she realized what kind of cruelty had just escaped her lips.

Both of her companions stared at her, wide-eyed, before Esther broke out into hysterical laughter.

"It doesn't let you go, does it," Esther laughed, patting her back, "He hurt your vanity real good."

Catherine pouted, now taking a big gulp and regret it in the same moment.

"I'm not vain," she coughed, sending Esther into another laughing fit.

"Don't take it so harsh, sweetheart," Esther cooed, "Whatever you did, even if it was just getting rejected, it got the job done. We still go to work just the same."

"Who exactly are you talking about," Theo asked, and Catherine was ready to sink into the floor.

Sadly, she didn't have the chance to, and Esther finished the story about Alastor humbling her within half an hour without any interruption. Well, at least the parts Catherine had told. Her general uneasieness had been something she wasn't to touch on. Or his expression of interest. It was silly, still, she wanted to keep it to herself.

Catherine wanted to be mad, but the lovely glimmer in Esther's dark eyes made it very hard to stay mad at her. It was only Theo. If she wanted to prove her lack of vanity, to bear this without complaint was the least she could do.

Esther let one of Catherine's locks slip through her finger.
"Maybe he'll change his mind, if you try," she joked, "You could start by wearing your hair natural more often. This is way prettier than the helm you flatten it to."

She shook her head to get away from Esther's hands, almost giggling because Esther never stopped telling her to exact same thing, causing her to flat out refuse every time for differing reasons she refused to waste time thinking about, but before she could say anything in response, Theo interrupted their discussion.

"You better don't," he said very solemly. The sudden seriousness was nothing like him.

Catherine raised her brows questioningly.

"By the sound of it, you're better off not drawing attention to yourself," Theo explained, "Fellas like these don't want your body only. They wanna play with your feelings. Don't let them."

"Have you met many of those," Catherine asked out of curiosity.

Theo looked down, almost as if in shame, but before Catherine could process any of it, Esther interrupted them with a meaningful look towards Theo she almost missed.
"So you agree her hair looks prettier this way."

Theo and Catherine rolled their eyes simultaniously, making Esther laugh once more.

"Don't we have to leave soon," Catherine changed the subject, intent on letting them keep their privacy.

"Sadly yes," Esther replied, turning to Theo again, "I'm so sad you can't come."

His gaze hardened for just a moment.
"You know I don't go there anymore."

Something unspoken happened between the two, and as they turned, they looked like they had just been caught doing something bad. As much as she wanted to, Catherine decided not to pry.

Clearly, they weren't set on revealing their shared secrets to her just yet, and she tried hard not to feel left out. Just because they had been friends longer didn't mean she wouldn't get there someday. She wouldn't be lonely. Not anymore. Not any longer. She just had to believe. And maybe, try harder.

It did make her feel better that right after this weird exchange, Theo reached out to grab her hand, squeezing it with a worried look in his eyes.

"Promise me, Catherine," he mumbled, "Don't let yourself become part of some power play. If it's that man, or anyone else. It always starts with putting you down until you say yes to just about everything. Rich men are always bored. They would ruin you just for the fun of it."

Catherine recalled Alastor's ongoings about looking for entertainment, and she shuddered. It seemed eerily similar, yet she couldn't bring herself to take Theo completely serious. Maybe because she wasn't able to think so highly of herself, or maybe because she was just realistic about the fact a pretty face wasn't enough to keep anyone's attention for long. Almost never for more than a night.

Besides, a pretty face hadn't saved her before, so it wouldn't bring trouble now, would it?

Catherine laughed a little awkwardly, patting his hand before pulling away. She felt exposed. Caught in a lie she didn't tell. They had secrets too, right? She wasn't a bad person for not admitting how right Theo might be. Even though, she still didn't believe it, making her feel less guilty.

"I promise," she said half-heartedly, "But you worry about nothing. You see, I'm already ruined. It would be like beating a dead mouse. Maybe funny for a sadistic mind for a moment, but nothing you waste your time on."

She noticed Esther trying to laugh but failing, a worried, motherly look appearing on her face once again. Her heart sank, too. She hadn't planned on being so existencial.

"Don't forget, Theo," Esther chimed it, trying to sound positive, "I look out for her. Noones getting through me."

While Theo still didn't look convinced, he dropped it, while Catherine couldn't help but smile at Esther affectionately. Maybe she was a tattletale sometimes, but feeling so fiercely protected for once felt nice.

They said their goodbyes to each other, a little strained, a little uncomfortable, but warm nonetheless.

Esther hooked her arm right under Catherine's, and the sillyness of it did in fact make her feel better.

"Don't ever talk about yourself like that again, sweetheart," Esther urged, "You're not ruined. You're a beautiful, young, talented Lady. You'll get out of here, I know it."

Luckily, the harsh wind hitting her face dried the impending tears before they could fall.

"Thank you, I appreciate it," she managed to choke out, trying to clear her head.

She wanted to believe in Esther; she wanted to believe in herself.

But if getting out meant just dealing with a different kind of horrible men, other wolves in sheep's clothing, what was the point? If it was a neverending cycle of people wanting to take something or other from her, why even bother?

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, she was too resilient to really stop trying. Her dreams were keeping her up at night too much to simply close her eyes and give up.

As Esther realized Catherine wasn't answering, she squeezed her arm.
"I mean it."

"I know," Catherine replied, forcing a small smile on her face. She took a deep breath, using the same technique of letting the horrible thoughts, the nevending fear pass her, drip off her by as she did at work.

It would always be around, but she wasn't ready to let it get to her just yet. No matter how close the calls got. She wasn't allowing herself to let it break her. Those wolves, those pricks could certainly try all they wanted.

And Alastor could run around, claiming she was such a bad liar. He had no clue, she thought to herself. It seemed to work just fine, if she could even convince herself.

Her smile got a little wider, any maybe even a tiny bit genuine.

"Now, we'll just forget it and have fun. We deserve it. More than anything."

Chapter Text

trigger warning: (mild?) sexual harassment!

Despite getting the cheapest tickets, it felt like a gift to sit in the crowd of the Orpheus. It was a staple, and because of that, very run-down. Still, they got people to pay ridiculous prices for better seats, so it wasn't like they were doing bad.

For now. One would see how badly all this Wall Street Drama would crash down on people. On art.

That was always first to go.

For now, and if it was just one night, one show, it didn't matter: Her favourite singer was even better than she remembered.

At intermission, Catherine's hands were almost cramping. She put her small notebook into her coat pocket for later, while Esther shot her a look.

She pulled her shoulders up before grabbing Esther's hand, correctly assuming they were headed for another drink. Better than getting into a discussion about her habit of making notes while seeing a show.

As they waited at the bar, Esther took another moment to look at her.

"You're glowing," she remarked, smiling.

"She is so wonderful," Catherine replied, "I wish I-"

She halted before before she could embarass herself. She knew Esther was aware of her ambitions as well as her failures achieving them.

Instead of commenting, Esther handed her another drink. Slowly, she grew accustomed to drinking, at least for the night. She felt a little dizzy, and of course, guilty, but other than that, she was doing fine.

Shortly, Catherine realized Esther was still looking at her intently.

"What," she asked, hoping not to sound snappy.

"Did you take Theo seriously," Esther asked, "He was laying it on very thick."

Catherine couldn't read Esther's facial expression at all.
"I don't know. He meant well, but he worries about nothing."

"He does mean well," Esther agreed, "But do you really think it's for nothing? He has a sense for those things."

Once again, she felt like the two of them were hiding something from her, so she wasn't exactly feeling like honesty would take her anywhere in this situation.

"Well, I'm not sure what he was sensing," she shot back regardless, "Because I am not in any-"

She made the mistake to look up at the gallery. It shut her right up.

Just above them, Alastor was standing comfortably, apparently having a casual conversation with several other people.

It felt like bad luck. It felt like intervention.

And for just a second, she imagined they made eye contact.

She quickly looked back at Esther, realizing she hadn't noticed yet, and pulled her into the small crowd that had formed.

"Let's get back to our seats," she urged, "Before it gets too crowded."

Esther looked at her weirdly, but didn't object. At least until they got further away.

"What's the matter with you," Esther pressed, "You seem strange."

She shook her head, not exactly knowing how to weasle out of the situation without revealing her observations.

Staring exclusively at the dirty floor, she made her way back. Maybe she was losing her mind a little, and maybe she didn't have to worry. It was paranoia to think she had been noticed, and besides- basically impossible to find her in the crowd.

If anyone even tried. So, nothing to worry about.

She smiled at Esther as best as she could, and since Esther, even though she was sometimes too curious for her own good, let her curiosity pass her by without a fuss.

Esther knew when not to pry. Most of the time. If Catherine was clear enough in her distress, which was a habit she tried to loose, even though it still sometimes came in handy.

Esther probably assumed Catherine had seen a client of theirs, since her reaction was similar to when this had happened in the past. She didn't care to correct her, and it wasn't entirely wrong either.

Esther simply smiled back, still something wavering in her eyes before turning to the stage.

They silently enjoyed the second half, Catherine's hand quickly moving over the paper.

Having to write down scripture in the dark over and over had given her an advantage after all; now, it was easy to write in low light.

Not once did she look away, although sometimes, she wanted to. As much as she loved the singing, the music- she could've done without the show around it. The glitter, the suggestive dancing- it was all too much. And despite leading an even more sinful life herself, she couldn't shake the feeling of discomfort watching people present themselves this way. Of course, it was hypocrisy to think like that.

She just couldn't help it. No matter how much time she'd spent away from her old life.

Hypocrisy had saved her before, after all.

She put the notebook away just in time for curtain call.
Esther stopped clapping very quickly, eager to leave soon. It was rare, and very nice to spend time with her outside of work, and she knew Esther enjoyed it, too. But she still had children to take care of, and Esther loved nothing more than them. Her most redeeming quality.

Esther tilted her head, nodding towards the exit to signal Catherine to follow.

Her gaze darted around, making sure she didn't lock eyes with a certain person again.

As the lively chatter swelled, she tried to talk herself down, all while keeping an eye on Esther's blue coat in front of her.

Why was she so nervous? So agitated? The fact that Theo's words haunted her felt unfair and useless at the same time. Chances were, a man like that would pretend not to know a girl like her, just in case. It was one thing to be well-off enough to afford to buy a house you didnt have to live in, another if you let it stay a whorehouse.

She shook her head, feeling embarassed of herself.
The fresh air hit her like a breath of relief.

She wanted to call out to Esther, finally having a small piece of comfort back- only to realize that Esther wasn't in front of her anymore.

Catherine looked around, her heart starting to beat uncomfortably fast. In a matter of seconds, she became frantic, helplessly watching people still pour out of the theatre.

None of them were Esther.

She scanned the crowd desperately until it slowly dissipated.

She stepped back into the theatre, to see if she might still be inside. Still, no sign of Esther.

In exhasperation, and to distract herself from her racing heart, she put her hat back on, deciding to try the back entrance.

They travelled together because it was safer. And to think that something might happen to her friend, or her having the same worries, was excruciating.

God knows what people were willing to do to unprotected, poor women.

She shivered, even though it wasn't even that cold. For one small moment, her attention slipped away from the people around her, and before she could react, two strange men stepped in front of her, cutting off her way back to the main entrance.

"Excuse me," she muttered without making eye contact, and apparently, this was something very funny to say.

"No need to apologize," one of them cooed.
"What's a little Lady like you doing, all by yourself," the other one asked.

Finally, she looked up and took them in.
Both were young, maybe slightly older than herself, and rugged. Their clothes were tattered, and from the smell coming off them, she figured they had been drinking heavily.

She took another step back, a gap which they closed almost immediately.

"Just looking for my friend," she said, to at least feign courtesy.

They laughed, again. Their eyes glued to her face, her body, made her shiver.

At work, she was used to it. And, if everything went wrong, she had Dirk to fall back onto, although both parties only did so begrudgingly.

On her own, it was way more daunting. On her own, there were no rules. If everything went wrong, she could only defend herself with nails and teeth.

And she didnt want it to come to that. Not again.

She cursed herself, not having listened to Esther about carrying some kind of self-defense weapon. It felt wrong. She didn't like violence. Even as a last resort.

"If your friend's half as pretty as you, we're in for a treat," the one that had spoken up first hiccuped.

"Listen," the other said, "We just got laid off. We're looking for a bit of fun. Care to join?"

Her eyes widened. She shook her head, excused herself again, and tried to sneak past them as firmly as possible.
The first, and she know realized more rugged one, caught her by the arm and hurled her back around.

"Come on, little Lady," he laughed, and something in his eyes made her heart give out for a moment, "We're not gonna hurt you."

"Let go," she pleaded, and to her relief, the man let go, raising his arms like he just got caught by the police. And once again, laughing, like she was strange or unreasonable.
Catherine took another step back, and this time, they didnt follow. They only eyed her in an alerted way that told her that they were stronger, and faster, and that it was useless to make a run for it.

This conversation was over when they said so. Catherine massaged her ring finger absent-mindedly, and way too harshly.

"We just want to get drunk and have some pretty company," the second man cut in again, "Is that too much to ask for? With the world crumbling and all?"

Her inhale was closer to a gasp. She was desperately trying to get a few words, anything really, out of her mouth, but the panic had silently taken over before she could do anything about it.

Suddenly, another sensation joined her overwhelmed state. A hand on her lower back. Soft, yet steadying.

Before she could comprehend what was happening, or question her immediate reaction to lean into it, the voice mumbling into her ear washed over her in horror.

"Orpheus' a bit on the nose, don't you agree? The musician, the muse- the inevitable doom," Alastor spoke casually, "It's almost ridiculous."

Unfortunately, Catherine still hadn't regained the ability to speak, or move. Or even understand what he was trying to tell her. It was all awfully puzzling.

Alastor didn't seem to mind, turning his attention to the men in front of them.

"Gentlemen," he greeted them, "I hope you dont mind. We have to get going, I'm afraid."

Her head snapped into his direction, as she was utterly confused. He didn't acknowledge it in the slightest, just shooting her another bright smile.

It told her enough. Play along, play nice, and you'll be out of this in no time.

She swallowed harshly, watching the men change their attitudes so quickly, it felt like a joke. An unfunny one, at that.

This wasn't what the world was supposed to be like.

Suddenly, when a man was present, who had a higher status, there was no laughter, and it was easy to apologize.

Even though it wasn't like her, she started seething.
Even though it wasn't like her, she grew envious.

She stared down at the ground, not interested in exchanging pleasantries. Before she knew, he gave her the signal to move.

"Just keep walking," he muttered, his hand still on her back, which didn't help while trying to calm her thundering heart.
As they finally reached the main entrance, she almost leaped away from him.

"Well," she coughed, "Have a nice evening."

"Now, now," Alastor said, grinning like he had just won a silly game, which just infuriated her further, "Don't you want to thank me before just... disappearing?"

This question, delivered so casually, almost cocky, made her stop in her tracks.

Maybe it was her double standards shining through once more, but the suggestion alone was enough to almost make her explode on him.

Yes, he got her out of a tricky situation, but did it really matter if it was just the same dynamic in disguise, like Theo had said? Why bother to save anyone if you were just going to assert your superior standing without even thinking of the implications? It didnt matter which man had power over her, scared her- if it was just all the same.

Though she had to admit- his touch had been nice. Always with the option to get out. It was quite worrying, since she hadn't really, truly felt like it.

"Thank you?"
She scoffed, only then realizing she didn't have the energy to blow off all the steam building up. Or the courage.

She was just a silly little girl, and she was still scared, and she didn't feel like being made fun of again. So she simply fell silent, staring at him like it was a challenge.

Let him try and ruffle your feathers, she thought. It won't make your night any worse than it already is.

Besides, he was society. It's not like he would dare to hurt a girl in public. Only laugh some more at her, maybe.

But he didn't laugh at her, or argue. Instead, in one smooth motion, he picked up her hands and turned them upwards.
Exposing the ink stains she had very much not noticed.
Just as she hadn't noticed how intensly her hands were shaking. But in a true twist of fate, Alastor chose not to ask uncomfortable questions about the latter.

Instead, his thumb stroked over the ink, causing her to pull away her hands immediately. Yes, she didn't entirely mind- all the more reason to shy away.

He chuckled as he rubbed two fingers together to realize the ink was not yet completely dry.

Alastor looked at her with a brow lifted, wearing a wondrous expression that made her pull her shoulders up.

"Was I too late," he asked, "Were you already writing down your will?"

She rolled her eyes.
"What a shame that you entertain people for a living. You're not funny at all."

He shrugged, clearly not bothered by her insult. And somehow, that bothered her. So much so that without any reason, and to her annoyance, she opted to just tell the truth.

"I wrote down things I noticed. That I would-"
Her voice gave out as she realizing how silly she sounded.

And of course, he laughed. She tried to glare him down, but realized she wasn't really offended. It sounded genuine.
She was tired of feeling like a deer in headlights. Was she so inexperienced, so stupid, that everything confused her?

"Ambitious," he stated, "Interesting."

For a moment, it seemed like he was looking at her differently. As if he needed to assess her again.
She felt herself shrinking under his gaze.

"Don't you have to be somewhere," she wondered, suddenly feeling tired, "Meet back up with someone?"

She clearly didn't mind enough that he was touching her so casually because once again, his hand was on her back as he turned her just enough so she could notice a couple having a heated argument a few feet away.

"It has been like this since intermission," he explained, his breath tickling her hair ever so slightly, "I'm tiring of posing as the third wheel."

She almost giggled at the thought in disbelief.

"How odd," she said, forgetting that she was supposed to keep her distance, "I never imagined that could happen to someone like you."
"I'm happy to surprise you."

She looked at them a little more intently now. The woman was quite beautiful, and of course, really fashionable. And, even though it shouldn't surprise her, significantly younger than the man aggressively talking her down.
"Are they married?"

Alastor laughed again.
"Heavens, no," he replied, "He is managing her career. So if you think about it, more stakes than a marriage. Only with similar expectations. He takes what he wants, and she gets rewarded in return."

Catherine took a step back as she heard him chuckle. The disrespect towards a holy sanctity paired with the expression made her remember why she was set on disliking him.

"That doesn't sound right," she argued, "So he is taking advantage of her. I don't think that kind of power imbalance is something to joke about."

He swayed his head, maybe pretending to be in deep thought while sneaking another look at her.

"You would think that," he said, "In reality, he thinks he has all the power. She knows she has him enthralled. She will win this argument."

Somehow, this line of thinking enraged her. "It's all too easy for you, ain't it?"

"Oh, it is," he agreed, "But I didn't mean to offend you. Still: you'd do well to remember how vulnerable it can make one. A silly attachment. The delusion to own someone, when you don't."

Why was he telling her all of this? It turned out to be even more exhausting to talk to him than she anticipated; it always seemed like he was several steps ahead, and was alluding to something that hadn't happened yet. It was almost enough to give her a headache.

"I didn't ask you for advice," she shot back, and he nodded, deciding to simply change the subject.

"Care to join," he asked, not even a hint of mockery in his tone.

Nevertheless, she couldn't help but feel like she was being ridiculed. He knew her financial standing; and her social one, too. It made her feel like a joke.
He noticed her contempt.

"You would save me from being sidelined," he added, "And also, you wouldnt wouldn't have to be all alone."

"I'm not," she said, "I'm here with my friend."

Alastor narrowed his eyes.
"Didn't she leave you here?"

She stared at him, opening her mouth to speak, yet she wasn't able to.

The glimmer in his eyes scared her. She got the sneaking sensation that he was trying to push her to say and do exactly what he wanted. And wasn't above to make her doubt her friend in the process. It was eerie.

Why even put in the effort? What could he possibly gain by trying to get her to come along? She was nothing. And they had already established he wasn't interested in her... physically. Not knowing turned out to be nerve-wrecking. Even more so as Theo's supposed empty warnings began to seem like a dark prophecy.
It took a few moments, but then she managed to regain her composure.

"No thank you," she firmly said, "I want to go home."

He nodded.
"That's a shame," he said, and once again, she couldn't read the tone of his voice, "Then allow me to fetch you a taxi instead. After such a tumultous night, you shouldn't have to try your luck."

She shook her head as she tried to hold off on saying 'no, thank you' again.

"Don't you worry," he said, walking closer to the road to presumably flag a car down, "It's an insignificant endeavor."

Catherine came to a stop almost aggressively. She was done playing his games. With his rules. Pretenting to understand what he was trying to achieve. She wasn't made for pretension, and she grew tired of being dragged along.
"Why are you being nice to me?"

He turned around to face her, and this time, he almost looked confused.
"Whatever do you mean?"

She wanted to avoid having to raise her voice, so she closed the gap between them without joy. No need to shout her business into the world. It was bad enough she had to share it with him.

"You made it very clear what you think of me. Why be nice now? You don't owe it to me, and frankly- I don't see why you should be."

He chuckled, shaking his head like you would at a misbehaving child. Catherine was close to seething.

"I think you got me all wrong, sweetheart," he concluded before closing the gap between them even further, uncomfortably so, looking down at her in a way that made her forget how to breathe.

"Besides," he added, almost under his breath, "Would you rather have me be cruel?"

It was then she realized this was scarier, and possibly more dangerous than any interaction she could've had with those two men before. While their actions were easy for Catherine to guess, she was woefully outmatched here.

Whatever he decided, she didn't know if she had any way to protect herself. Or even trust herself enough to not fall for it.

He wasn't a man that was used to 'no'. And she wasn't used to saying 'no' to a man like this.

As much as she tried, and prayed, she couldn't be sure how strong she really was. And no matter how she thrashed against it- she was enthralled. She just couldn't help it. If you ignored his hideous personality, he was inviting. Enticing, even. And she wasn't sure if she could handle it. And that gave her a horrid sense of guilt.

Her heart thundered in her chest as she skimmed her mind for an answer, any answer.

She got interrupted before it had to come to that.

"Cathy," Esther's voice called out, racing towards her to pull her into a mighty hug, "Oh, thank God I found you."

Usually, her use of God as a throwaway expression while Esther didn't even believe in God would make her question her friend, but right now, she was still too overwhelmed to argue. She was just happy to hug her friend.

Only now did Esther notice Alastor's presence. She let go of Catherine immediately, and some part of her was sad that she did. She wanted to hide, not talk to him some more.

"Oh," Esther simply said, "What're you doing here?"

Catherine was envious of how easily it came to Esther to just talk normally, without really thinking about it.

In contrast, Catherine's gaze darted over to him, silently begging him not to disclose the horrid conversation from before.

He noticed, one corner of his mouth rising ever so slightly in his already pleasing, casual smile, and it was almost enough to make her shudder.

In this moment, he had her in the palm of her hand. And he was well aware.

The fact that she couldn't shake the feeling of excitement was something that filled her with even more guilt.

"Oh you know," he replied, "Merely making some conversation. I was just about to offer Catherine a taxi home. Of course, that offer extends to you. I understand you live close by?"

Esther looked back and forth between them, first in suspicion, then confusion, and finally, delight. Her heart sank.

"That's really nice," Esther commented, throwing Catherine a look.

She tried to communicate her disagreement, silently begging her friend to say no- but unlike Alastor, she didn't seem to pick up on it.

"It's quite alright," he said, "I take it you two want to take up the offer, then?"

Catherine opened her mouth to decline, but Esther was quicker to respond.

"We'd love to," she exclaimed, "Thank you so much."

It was like she'd already forgotten what Theo had said. She hoped that Esther was just eager to exploit a generous offer, and wasn't inclined to change her mind about Alastor.
Catherine was afraid that wasn't the case.

She had made up her mind as well. She needed to talk to Theo again, and take any advice he had to offer like gospel.

And as her stomach turned at Alastor's disgustingly triumphant expression, she felt like she had to hurry.

Chapter Text

Maybe it should hurt him more, or at least concern, what had become of the house. Yet Alastor had a hard time to feel the negative impact, since the fact alone had already brought him a considerable amount of entertainment.

And was still less morally corrupt than what he had originally planned to do with it. So, he could only count it as a win.

To taint the house, the memories made even further delighted him in a strange way. It only added to the horror he'd been forced to feel inside, and he was well aware this was the closest to a sense of justice he would ever be able to feel.

He wasn't a stranger to the knowledge that in order not the be bored, he was dependent on people to entertain him. And thus far, these people here did a good job; their unrefined manners, their fear for the future had a charm about it he couldn't quite pinpoint.

It was different, for once. Even depravity lost its edge over time.

So in the end, it turned out to be a better investment, he thought as his foot tapped along to the ever-so-slightly out of tune music.

The instruments, albeit a shame, weren't the star of the show, anyways. They never were.

It was the girl, Catherine, who admittetly had a voice with a lot of potencial.

Although, it was not the only potencial he sought after.
For some strange reason he couldn't quite explain, he had been fascinated from the beginning. Only a little, at first, but continously watching her paired with the fact that any conversation with her amused him to no end elevated the initial feeling even further.

He didn't feel the need to wonder why; the interest she sparked, the tidbits he had gotten from her quite neurotic boss were enough not to.

It seemed like quite the golden oppurtunity. To have some fun.

She was a catholic. A quite devout one at that. Or at least she was, according to Dirk.
Delicious. Just perfect.

He watched her on the stage above, half-mindedly leading some conversation with someone or another. The fact that her talents, if properly tended to, were just simply wasted here made her voice sound even sweeter.

Get rid of the horrid lipstick, hairstyle and maybe put her into something more fashionable- you got yourself a promising artist.

Well, at least decent enough to garner some kind of attention. What Alastor was planning was way more enticing, but maybe it was for the better that few people had a mind like his.

He smiled to himself, the conversation on the side slowly reaching its end. Luckily. He had much to think about. Mostly, how to turn the current situation around.

Alastor was well aware that he had miscalculated, and had come off too strongly a few weeks ago- although he still believed sending those men after her to put her in a position where she had to reconsider her initial dislike of him had been a stroke of genius, it didn't really accomplish what he'd set out to do.

The problem in his line of logic had been simple: he was used to manipulating men into situations to his advantage. And men, when confronted with flattery, were more inclined to just believe you without a question. It was as easy as breathing, to falsely assume they were the next big thing, sought after, soon to be a rich man.

And Catherine, maybe mirroring her sex, maybe not, didn't believe a word that came out of his mouth. She was probably taught to mistrust. And that wasn't wrong, far from it. His motives weren't pure at all. Though it did complicate things for him, that she wasn't entirely dense.

Of course, he would never complain about the challenge; he relished in it.

He would gladly play some cat and mouse, if that's what it took. The rest was already on its way to be figured out.
Alastor's eyes scanned the room as he politely clapped.
Something about her bow seemed so untouched, so pure. It was quite ironic, really.

She didn't make eye contact with anyone, and unfortunately didnt even look in his general direction before disappearing behind the curtain.

Though, someone else looked into hers.

Alastor was pretty sure he hadn't seen him before, though he tried to keep his visits to a minimum, so he couldn't be sure if it meant anything. What he was sure of was the fact that the look on this man's face it clear what he was after.
So much hunger. And for something so... trivial. What a shame, it would just not do.

He moved through the room, into the man's general direction.

The biggest advantage of occasionally surrounding himself with lowlifes was that to them, he seemed like someone to envy, which only made it easier to rig the game in his favour.

And just like always, it was easy to start up a conversation. It took awhile, to distract him from his original plan, but after awhile, he didn't look back at the door Catherine was supposed to come out of.

In a time of such uncertainty, and financial ruin, it was easy to lure with advice. Illuminating your own success, and making it easy- it infuriated people just as much as it fascinated them.

Though a waste of time, it achieved exactly what he'd wanted: as Catherine finally did emerge, he was the only one looking at her.

Watching her turned out to be quite enjoyable.

At first, she looked around in confusion, her expression slowly changing into something close to disappointment.
It wasn't long before she finally spotted him in conversation.

Her eyes darted back and forth between them, her expression slowly turning into a frown as she realized what had happened.

He was aware that he had to be careful, as not to scare her away, if he wanted her to trust him at some point. But oh dear, seeing her eyes burn into him angrily, unspoken profanities apparent in her face was just too good to pass on.

He excused himself, making his way over to her. A sweet feeling of excitement washed over him he didnt feel to adress.

Alastor had lacked inpiration for months now. It didn't matter to him why, only that finally, he was finding a way to enjoy life just a little bit more again.

By destroying another. Wonderful.

Some small mistakes like now were alright. It would only prolong the plan, and right now, that was fine by him.

"And you are you this fine evening," he greeted her.
Catherine scoffed, clearly not appreciating his courtesy.

"What do you think you're doing," she demanded to know.

His hands rose into a calming gesture, which she clearly tried very hard not to explode at. Her grip on her own emotions was paper-thin, and he enjoyed every moment of it.

She was trying so hard to keep composure. To be good. And the fact that he had a feeling she didn't really want to was just charming.

"I don't have any idea what you're talking about," he lied, throwing her a warm smile.

She closed her eyes in frustration, trying so very hard not to snap at him.

"Oh, please," she hissed, "I'm trying to work. Could you kindly not steal any man's attention that might help me feed myself?"

Her frankness was a good sign. In some way, he'd already lowered her guard, as her snark told him she had less issues being honest with him.

Which was just perfect. Trapping someone was easier than chasing them. The latter might be more fun, but all in due time.

Once again, he was compelled to choose a more risqué response, just to rile her up a bit more.

This would be a problem. It was too much fun.

"If it's that easy to divert someone's attention away from you," he commented, "Then maybe you're just as bad at your job as you think I am at mine."

Her mouth formed a thin line. She was clearly enraged, but didn't dare to speak her mind, which he could tell by the fact that she was searching around for Dirk.

Who Alastor had worked hard to have under his thumb. Well, not unecessarily hard, since Dirk was fairly easy to control. Soon enough, the financial pressure put on him would cause Dirk to listen to his spending advice.

And Alastor had told him exactly where to save this money. A shame, really, since the performances were the only enjoyable thing inbetween all the desperate attempts to seduce, but soon, it wouldn't matter anyway.

"Well, I clearly have your attention," she muttered under her breath, her eyes burning into him in anger and helplessness at the same time.

He couldn't help but chuckle.
"You certainly do."

Catherine sighed, watching the man who'd had his eyes on her leave. All of a sudden, she looked very tired.

He loved when things worked out better than he planned them to.

At least they did, until they were rudely interrupted.

"Cathy," a very husk, and very drunk voice called out.
The voice was very fitting to his appearance, Alastor had to admit.

Run down, middle aged, and swaying dangerously as he put his arm on Catherine.

"Hello, Mr. Fitch," she said, already sounding defeated.

Alastor narrowed his eyes, deciding to say nothing and just spectate, even though it was very hard to do so.

As much as he didn't appreciate this Mr. Fitch barging in, it might play into his cards. He had to wait and see. Taking a risk every once in a while wouldn't deter his goal too much, he was sure.

Still, it was a surprisingly big effort not to shift his weight forward. But Catherine was quicker, pushing the man off herself.

"So, what do you say," Mr Fitch said, "You and me? I miss you, baby."

Catherine looked at him briefly, the embarassment apparent in her expression before turning to reply.
"Do you have the money?"

"Well, you know how it is," the oaf stuttered, "Big investments coming up. I thought you might be so sweet and give me a discount."

She took a deep breath, almost as if she was trying to keep compusure. Alastor almost held his breath, excited by the fact she might fail.

"You know I can't do that, Mr. Fitch," she answered like she probably had a hundred times.

"Why not," he pouted, trying to get closer again, "I'm a regular!"

She evaded him with skill, and Alastor saw her mood shift.
She was so tired of being treated like this.

Good.

Riling her up a little had been the right call, in retrospect. Even though watching wasn't as amusing as he'd thought.
The things he could do to teach this man a lesson. But alas, it would distract from the original plan.

"Stop trying to haggle me," she demanded, her voice increasing in volume, "If anything, don't lie about investments. It's gambling, that is all. Go home to your wife. To your children. And stop pretending to be this great, big man, we're all tired of it!"

The room seemed more silent, all of a sudden, with everyone watching her.

Dirk, red in the face, stood up from his place to put her into his.

Alastor gestured for him to sit back down, and like a well-trained dog, he listened, making an effort to start up the music again so everyone would have it easier to gloss over Catherine's outburst.

Mr. Fitch grumbled insults, complaints, basically all his grievances, including Alastor, apparently, into his beard before walking away in defeat.

It seemed like Catherine barely noticed.
She stared holes into him, her eyes burning with a disproportionate amount of anger.

"Let me guess," she wondered, "You expect me to thank you for keeping my boss off my case."

He shrugged, tilting his head in curiosity.
"One could think that's an appropiate response. But I can't wait for your opinion on it."

He knew if he overdid it, he would endanger his future efforts. But it was just so thrilling to watch her sweet face contort in rage, all the insults she would never dare to use flash in her stare. The feeling of power didn't quite compare to anything else.

In a way, she was so... conflicting. A neverending fountain of opposing feelings, ready to be bent into something better. Greater. Something worth to watch crash and burn.

Once again, she changed course, the anger vaporizing into thin air, a rather desperate look appearing in its stead.

"Why," she wondered, her eyes like a doe's, "What did I do to you, that you refuse to leave me be?"

Fear would go so well with her face, he realized.

"You seem determined to think ill of me," he replied, "I would argue the question should be what I did to you."

Her mouth opened ever so slightly, wanting to answer, but of course, she wasn't able to.

She had no idea what he was planning to do. And at least she was clever enough, to let it intimidate her.

"You have no business, talking to me so much," she finally argued, "I am-"

Her voice gave out, as if she wasn't comfortable to say her thoughts out loud.

The perfect oppurtunity for some well-placed praise.

No matter how much she denied it, he knew he was striking a chord within her. She was flattered by his attention. She was close to enjoying it. And, she was just as fascinated as he was, just for different reasons.

Carnal reasons, probably. But oh well.

"You are wasted here," he murmured, "You know it as well as I. So why stay?"

Uncertainty clouded her eyes. She wanted to believe him, but was too weary. So, she went right back to being offended.
Such a delight.

"Survival," she snapped, "I can't afford to dream. And at least I get to sing. Not everything has it as easy, you know."

She wouldn't illuminate this place with song much longer, he was afraid. Of course, she wasn't allowed to know that yet. So Alastor feigned the best compassionate face he could muster.
"What a shame. I am sorry."

Her brows furrowed, scanning his remark for lies.

But that was quite alright. Her distrust would make the game more fun. Besides, he knew he'd already sparked the hunger for more. Possibly reignited the wish to dream. And for now, that was enough.
More than enough.

No amount of careful mistrust was enough to shake the feeling that he was right. Not yet enough to act on it, of course, but more than enough for the next step.
Desperation.

Catherine blinked too many times in a row.
"I need fresh air," she excused herself, not waiting for a goodbye.

He let her go without a fuss, considering this interaction a success.

Alastor felt that she didn't want to, yet still turned once to look back at him.

Locking eyes sparked something at him he wasn't able to shake.

He could hardly contain himself. His excitement, his impatient need to get through his plans quicker, even though the wait would just sweeten the reward.

She would make such a beautiful corpse.

Chapter Text

December 1929.

The windows of the streetcar were grimy, making it harder to observe the world pass by around her.

At first, the fact that she had to drive out so far simply to go to church had been a hassle. Now, she had grown to enjoy it; the drive gave her peace of mind.

And peace of mind was much needed.

It would've been nicer to see better through the windows. But then, the world outside was just more of the same.

Rain. Cold. Misery.

The unemployment just kept rising and rising, and the uncertainty going with it left her with an uneasy feeling.

Even more so after Dirk's change in character the last few weeks. Paired with the schedule changes, his irritability and the fact that he wanted to have a word with her tonight.

And Esther. And everyone else, really. It was quite concerning.

She didnt want to think about it. She didn't want to be so selfish, and be hopeful instead.

Sunday came just in time. Catherine was in dire need of some salvation.

She couldn't ignore her plethora of negative emotions anymore, and she was tired of lying to herself. She wanted nothing more than to get rid of them. To cleanse her soul. It felt awfully tainted, even more than usual.

Catherine was angry all the time, had a hard time not lashing out, and on top of that, didn't remember the last time she had told the full truth. To anyone, really. Even herself.

The only comfort she had was that whatever brought Alastor to give her his undivided attention one too many times had ebbed off. Not being poked and tested every other day made it a lot easier to keep her composure.

In fact, he kept his distance quite well. He was present less and less these days, and if he was in the house, only to rile Dirk up some more. Other than that, he was nothing but cordial.

And a very small, hidden, shameful part inside her was disappointed at that.

Of course, she would never admit it. It was weakness, that she had succumbed to attention so easily. She should thank the stars that she wasn't tested further, that she had been able to tell Theo what she'd thought all along:
He had no true interest in her. There was nothing to worry about.

Not that Theo and Esther ever spilled the truth about Theo's true grievance. But that was another issue, for another time.

As if she didn't spend too much time thinking about Alastor and her's every single interaction. The fact that everytime she looked into his eyes, she felt the need to run, but then she didn't.

She pulled her coat tighter just before standing up to get off at her stop.

What a waste of time it was, to spend any moment thinking about something so insignificant. There was no need to be disappointed; it had been clear from the start that there couldn't be any true interest.

Though, it had been nice. To not be a body for once. To be looked at as something else than she was, even if it was only a shimmer of amusement.

Catherine sighed. She should be glad that this spark had been short-lived. Clearly, she wasn't equipped to handle more. She was hardly able to let it go now.

Or the fact that despite her best efforts, she was so easily tempted. If an aura of mystery and a handsome face were all that it took, it was a surprise her... problematic disposition had lain dormant this long.

Upon entering, she realized the church was colder than the outside. That was quite alright- if it shook her traitorous thoughts out of her. She was just in time, as not everyone had sat down yet.

Catherine looked around, the cold slowly getting less noticable as being in the presence of God thawed her out.

Or maybe it was a sign of her already burning, the Lord smiting her for her many, many sins.

She swallowed. Church had always been a place of comfort, but also great pain, and the fact that she had to try very hard to enjoy it hurt her deeply. Yet she would not stop trying. Just as she would not stop trying to earn forgiveness.

She lifted her face up towards a statue of Mary, closing her eyes. For just a moment, she wanted to soak in the feeling, only for Catherine to suddenly feel watched.

She turned her head to the side, catching a woman she had never seen before look at her a little too intently, and as she was caught, look away.

Catherine furrowed her brows, adjusting her clothing, her immediate thought being that she was inappropiately dressed. But that couldn't be, since her mother's old dress was nothing if not modest. Itchy, but modest.

She stepped away a little, and as she did, caught the woman looking towards her again.

She couldn't know what she did for a living, right? If Catherine couldn't recognize her?

A knot formed in her throat. On the off-chance that she was being recognized, she couldn't bring herself to greet the woman nicely. Maybe her voice would give it away fully.
So she just nodded, and smiled, turning to sit down as far away as possible.

She was so tired of it. The general uneasiness, the fear of being recognized, the innate feeling of shame surrounding every aspect of her life.

Like she was being watched, even if she wasn't. It was a slow, neat poison.

The organ starting up saved her from a further spiral.
And for just a while, the world passed her by; the humble feeling of getting on one's knees to pray, her lips moving along silently was almost peaceful.

The discomfort of the hard wood against her knees drowned out any thoughts that could harm her, at least for a little while.

Until the sermon, that was.

The centre was a story from the book of Job, and Catherine listened intently, with not much negative nor positive emotion  until something threw her off.

And, unlike usual, it wasn't the strange intonation the priest had; he had a peculiar way of pronouncing certain syllables, specifically those at the end of sentences. Paired with the slight lisp, it wouldn't have been the first time that despite her best efforts, she was taken aback by it.

No, this time it was the contents of his speech, rather than the way he said it.

"Naked I came from my mother's womb, and naked shall I return there," the priest said solemly,
"The Lord gave, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."

Without warning, tears shot into her eyes, an odd mixture of feelings emerging from within her.

All her life, she had been waiting for a gift. A reward, for always following God's word and being good.

It had never come. And the fact that she was disappointed, angry even, made her guilt swallow her whole.

She had amounted to nothing. And her trying to be good had only led to more sin. And now she felt like it was too late.

The things she had done were irreversible, some of them not ever having left her mouth.

All it would've taken was one gift. But she felt like all the world ever did was take from her.

And she was so tired of it. So, so tired.

Now, she couldn't ask anything of the Lord anymore; now, she should only beg for forgiveness.

But despite knowing better, she was wishing and praying. For something she didn't deserve.

One small chance. That's all she was asking for.

That's what she did, despite knowing she shouldn't, as the hard wood buried into her knees again. This time, it wasn't comforting at all, and suddenly, as she spoke along, she felt like a pretender, the statues and pictures staring her down knowingly.

Chills trickled down her spine.
The rest of service passed by slowly, yet hazy, as if she was just a bystander to her own body.

Her legs wobbled as she was finally allowed to stand up, feeling even more guilty than before.

If only her mother knew how tainted her thoughts were. Her heart, her soul.

Not that she ever nurtured any. But she still expected them to be spotless.

And she had disappointed her. And God, too.

A sigh of relief escaped her as she noticed the right door of the confessional close.

That's just what she needed. To rid herself of at least some of these worries weighing on her. Then, she would go back to feeling good. Even in church.

Catherine didn't even have to wait. Only the woman from before stood in front of her, and as she spotted Catherine, she left.

She furrowed her brows, choosing not to think about the whole ordeal as she entered the confessional.

For a moment, she stood inside, contemplating whether to kneel or not. She knew Priests were not like other men, and the process of kneeling with only him present wasn't anything like work, and thinking it is was very wrong. The privacy of it all strangely made it more uncomfortable.

He was a servant of God, so it was alright. Although it didn't help that the priest's odd, distinctive way of speaking left no room for imagination. It was a man, she knew what he looked like, she knew how silly he sounded.

She sighed again, lowering herself to her knees before the silent comments inside her head were taking over again.
Catherine closed her eyes for a moment to refocus herself.
"Bless me Father, for I have sinned."

"May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy," the priest said, and for a moment, she forgot about his strange accent.

She wondered if it was even possible to enlighten every heart, even though she felt terrible about it.

But if a heart lit up for suffering and distress, this couldn't apply, no?

She shut her eyes harder. This wasn't the time for Alastor to invade her thoughts.

"You may now start to confess," the priest suggested. She jumped, realizing she'd stayed silent for longer than she wanted to.

"I have been so angry lately," she confessed, as always her greatest sin pressing to be spoken aloud, which would never happen, "I have no compassion in my heart. For others. For those different than me. And I fear I have been unkind to people around me."

"Would you please explain further how you have been unkind?"

"I-" she stuttered, struggling to put it into words without mentioning a certain name, "I lie. I am rude, and insulting. I am riled up easily. I demand, more than I give. And I regret it, very much. But I don't know how to fix it."

The priest made a very distinct humming sound. It was strange that she knew she could pick him out easily in a crowd.

Not as strange as the fact that she wasn't willing to share her thoughts of hubris, and disappointment from moments earlier. She wasn't ready to share it yet. She needed to think on it, and hoped God would spare her the time.

"I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen."

She felt a weight lift off her shoulders, at least until all the other things she wanted to admit to pulled her right back down.

Her eyes fluttered open as she took a deep breath.

Confession was private. Nothing would happen if she shed herself of her true mortal sins, she would only finally receive the grace and peace she so desperately needed-

"As penitence," the priest cut her thoughts off, "I suggest you pray over it. Search for the cause of your anger."

Her breathing got heavier against her will.
"I think I know."

"Then go forth, and practice compassion. Forgive the people that wrong you, just as the Lord forgave you, and gave his only Son. You never know what causes people to stray from God's teachings, so serve him by being a shining example."

She swallowed, not sure if she was able to do so. Maybe, the priest was right. But he also didn't know Dirk.

Or Alastor, for that matter. It was very hard to be forgiving towards someone that never felt sorry.

She bit her lip. Maybe that was the point.
Maybe she had been too harsh on him. It wouldn't hurt to try to be more... open, to not judge so hastily. To reach out a hand, to make peace.

Of course it felt wrong, in a way she didn't even fully grasp. But she failed to be good in so many other aspects of life, it couldn't hurt to listen and trust in the Lord's word once.
Her voice was stronger and more confident as she spoke up again.
"Thank you."

"Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good," the priest replied.
"His mercy endures forever."

Out loud, it was easy to believe it also applied to her. For just a moment.

"Your sins are forgiven," the priest said, "Go in peace."

And strangely, that's exactly what she did.
As she stepped out, the strange woman from before was nowhere in sight, luckily.

This time, her sense of relief was more permanent.

Catherine felt driven, almost hopeful. Of course, it was wrong- her other tribulations hadn't gone away. But suddenly, the world seemed are little more managable.

She would practice forgiveness. And if those people, this man, weren't able to bother her anymore- well, then it was way harder to get hurt.

It felt like a good purpose to be a good example, and she was willing to try very hard. And maybe, slowly, her anger, her lack of direction would vaporize.

A stop from the constant lingering of Alastor in her mind would be nice, too. But maybe she shouldn't expect too much too quickly.

The sun peeked out of the clouds, shining down beautifully.
And after weeks, no months, she was almost looking forward to the future. At least a little bit.

Oh, she was glad church had felt good again after all. She'd been scared she'd strayed so much that she'd lost her connection to God. That her mother had always been right about her character.

So many things seemed possible now. In truth, she even felt less nervous about tonight than before. Whatever Dirk wanted to throw at her, she would be able to take it. For just a tiny moment, she was hopeful.

A horrible mistake, she would come to learn. The most horrible misassumption she would have in all her life.

As for the priest's advice- in the future, she would pray to have never, ever received it.

Unfortunately, there was no way she could've known in this moment. It was a blessing and a curse, that she hadn't known what kind of hell was waiting just around the corner to rain down on her.

Chapter Text

Catherine's previous optimism was admittedly hard to maintain while being at work.

It didn't help that it was unusually busy. And she was unusually sought after.

She couldn't imagine anyone salvaging something good about the animalistic ravaging she had to endure.
Her mind had left her body hours ago, and she wasn't feeling a lot like herself as she stumbled out of one of the private rooms.

Walking turned out to be a challenge at first, as she was more limping than moving with confidence.

Her insides were hurting. Every step was a challenge. She knew people had relations for pleasure, and even before she started working here, she'd never understood it.

Maybe there was some secret to it. She knew it couldn't be God, for one. She was sure of it, given past events.

Well, the men seemed to enjoy it well enough. The harsh grabbing without a thought, the animalistic grunts, the repetetive movements- if she didn't zone out, she would get nauseous every time.

She slipped into the next best room, a closet, closing the door with shaking hands.

Her hand snapped in front of her mouth, burying the sob escaping her lips before it could be heard.

It only took a moment to readjust, and it was a shame. She wished she could be more upset, but she wasn't in a position to be.

Her hand fell down as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Once again, she rubbed her ring finger absent-mindedly, realizing that the place where she stood right behind the door was the only place she was realistically able to stand at all.

The entire space was filled with instruments.

Her forehead creased, and her brows rose in confusion. She reached towards them, realizing they were not dusty or anything.

They hadn't been standing here for long. And she knew for a fact the musicians would kill Dirk if they found their instruments in a cold, damp closet.

Besides, it wasn't long until the first performance. Why were they here at all?

An inexplicable sense of horror shook her.
But she didn't have time for any of it. She was hurting, and also had to go back to work.

And hope that for the next hour or so, noone would look her way. At least until she recovered.

As little pain-inducing as possible, and probably quite awkward, she hobbled down the stairs.

Of course, as she stood on the last flight of stairs, she realized her hope of not drawing attention for a while had always been null and void.

In the time she'd been gone, Alastor had made his way into the house, sitting down leisurely, sipping something or other.

Naturally, he spotted her across the room, giving her a greeting nod.

Somehow, as she was looking at him, taking in his relaxed, controlled smile, she felt like breaking down and crying.
Catherine was so jealous. That he always seemed like nothing could hurt him. That he could go where he pleased, do as he wanted, and talked like he knew the answer to everything.

She wanted to hate him for it. But, she had vowed to practice forgiveness.

So with a lot of effort, she threw him a forced, pained smile before she scurried off so she didn't have to look at him anymore.

It was hard to. To look, and not to look. It was confusing.
Another pang of pain shot through her as she walked right into another man. One of the men playing saxophone, if she wasn't mixing things up in her confused state.

He looked at her, a mixture of rage and despair in his eyes.

"Tell your boss he's a piece of shit if you have the chance, why don't you," he spat her, and she took a step back.
"What are you talking about?"

He rolled his eyes, insinuating she was missing something very obvious.

"15 years. 15 years of my life, just to rot with the rest of 'em," he muttered, pushing past her.

She watched him leave, enraged, and slowly, she realized her sense of horror prior to this conversation was justified.
Catherine's head whipped around, trying to locate Dirk without having to look at Alastor again.

Just because she resolved to be kinder didn't mean she wanted to try her luck. Avoiding him at all cost still seemed like the most probable option.

There was still this inexplicable draw she truly didn't care to explore.

The first person she made eye contact with was Esther.
Her gaze was pure warning.

And maybe, Catherine should've listened. Wait for the pain to die down. Calm herself. But she didn't know then, so she immediately walked up to Dirk, who was in the middle of getting yelled at by another musician.

Esther shook her head, but it didn't matter then.

"What's going on," she demanded, trying to ignore the eyes she felt on her body.

It was probably Esther, regretting not having stopped her, but how could she be sure?

Dirk's face coloration was once again a sight to behold. She repeated her question, and his face contorted into something that was supposed to be an awkward smile. It was almost grotesque.

"Cathy," Dirk greeted, "Perfect. I need to talk to you."
"Why is everyone leaving," she asked, "Why is everybody angry?"

His stifled, forced laugh went straight into her bones.

"Listen," Dirk explained, "We have to make some changes. It can't go on like this. I'm losing money by the minute."

Despite herself, she had to laugh, knowing exactly how much money she had made him in the past hours.
"What changes?"

Dirk sighed.
"It's time to stop pretenting we're a better establishment than we are."

His refusal to be specific slowly got on her nerves.

"Speak up," she urged, "What does that mean?"

"We're done with the music," Dirk finally spat out, "I'm sorry, Cathy."

"You're not sorry," she muttered before she could weigh her options.
"What?"

She was shaking. In pain, in disbelief. In rage.
"You can't do that. Take it from us."

Dirk had been trying to seem chipper until now. Now, his face fell.
"I can. And I have to. That's just how things go."
"But-"

"No, Cathy," Dirk intercepted, "No buts. You've been too unruly as it is. I will hear no more of it."

"Unruly," she spat out, "Just because I speak up for myself, you're telling me I misbehave?"

"You are," Dirk replied, his face slowly turning red, "You've been disobidient, irritable, and an overall pain. The way you treated Mr. Fitch... be thankful I let you keep your job. Be thankful I saved you off the streets when I did."

She laughed because if she didn't, she would start to cry.

"Keep on telling yourself that," she sneered, still feeling the pain in her body, "You exploit us. I only stayed because you let me sing, not because I'm grateful for anything you did. All you do is for yourself."

Dirk's lips formed a thin line as his gaze darted around, probably considering to yell at her.

She didn't have to guess who he was looking at as she watched him change his mind.

Catherine surpressed the need to roll her eyes. Meanwhile, an entirely opposite, warm feeling trickled down her spine, and she had half a mind to hate herself for it.
What a strange way to feel protected.

She didn't have time to linger on it, as Dirk opened his mouth again, when she wished he hadn't.

"You can think what you want," Dirk said, "I pulled you out of misery, and you never thanked me. You might not like it, but without me, you'd be dead."

She wanted to reply something snarky, but as the memorys flooded back, it was hard to.

All the fear. The pain. The lack of direction. The constant failing, of her life, of her character.

Maybe it had been kinder if Dirk had never tried to "save" her in the way he claimed.

While Dirk's face softened, something strange started to gleam in his eyes at the same time. He put a hand on her shoulder, and Catherine felt the weight of the world crashing down around her.

"Don't take it so hard, Cathy," Dirk suggested, "Maybe it's time to stop dreaming. And just accept what you are."

Her heart dropped.
"What I am?"

Dirk cleared his throat.
"You know," he said, "You're not a singer. You're a whore. And maybe that's all."

Hot, seething, yet cold rage shook her to the core.

The worst part was that Dirk was trying to be empathetic. He saw nothing wrong with what he was saying. And well, he wasn't entirely wrong.

But that was the problem. She was tired of staying in her place. Listen to Dirk about her shortcomings. Get grabbed, pushed down, and defiled. Sell her morals for nothing more than being one step away from pure ruin.

And maybe, it was just not worth it anymore.

Catherine felt dizzy, and a little beside herself, but not in the way she did when she had to be with those men.

It was almost like she was finally waking up. And it was daunting.

"I quit," she muttered.
"What?"
"I quit," she repeated, her voice gaining strength and resolve.

Dirk reached out for her again, something almost like genuine worry in his face. She shook him off.

"Cathy," Dirk said, "Don't be rash."

"I'm not," she replied, "I should've done it sooner. I will not stop dreaming. I won't stop reaching for more."

She tried to not let his face deter her. Dirk didn't believe in her.

But that was quite alright. Nobody had to. She would figure it out.

Catherine adjusted her clothing before making her leave. She turned on her heels once, facing Dirk for hopefully the last time.

"And it's Catherine," she stated, her gaze like steel, "My name is Catherine. You better remember that."

She wondered why she'd said it that way as she walked out with as much confidence as her body would allow.

Catherine smiled at Esther, who looked as she was in complete shock. She didn't slow down for her. Catherine would explain in time. As soon as she had figured something out. Right now, she wasn't able to. So, she just walked out.

Rain hit her face as soon as she had a foot outside the door. In that moment she realized she had forgotten her coat, and also her hat.

Quickly, she took a few more steps, trying to gain distance between her and the house. In a matter of moments, she was drenched.

She couldn't go back. Her silly, silly pride didn't allow her to. It didn't make sense to stop now. She was shivering, but she didn't even really feel cold. Instead, her decision to quit slowly sunk into her bones, similar to the rain.

The quicker she got home, the better. As long as she still had a home, anyways.

It didn't feel like a mistake, yet the gravity of the situation settled in just now.

She didn't have a plan, and she didn't know how to 'figure it out'. If all went wrong, she would be homeless in a month. She would end up on the streets, hungry, and even more desperate than before. It's not like it was easy to get a job these days. Significantly harder than losing one, surely.

Her heart fluttered, realizing that she had been rash. Which she could never take back. And left her with very little time to figure it out.

Before she could panic, or regret her choices, she heard footsteps quickly approaching through the rain. In response, she picked up her pace until suddenly, raindrops weren't hitting her skin anymore.

Something brushed her arm, and as she turned her head to the right only to find Alastor smiling at her, she jumped involuntarily.

He chuckled, reaching out a hand to steady her.
She wanted to flinch away, but somehow, she didn't.
She was confused. Scared. Any amount of comfort was a gift, even though she wished it wasn't.

Though, that didn't mean she would admit it.

"What are you doing," she huffed, trying to get some space between them without getting hit by the rain again. It was close to impossible.

"You forgot your coat," Alastor replied casually, "And your hat. Which is a shame. This one is almost acceptable."

She rolled her eyes, causing him to laugh.
Well, at least there was no reason to be cordial anymore.

"There is nothing to laugh about," she said, "You are really-"
Her voice died in her throat as Alastor draped the coat around her in one smooth motion, while still holding the umbrella perfectly still. It was quite impressive, and yet another thing Catherine had to put away.

Just like the fact that she had a hard time ignoring how nice he smelled. It was probably just the overabundance of sweaty, musky odors she had to endure today. Still, she didn't feel like lingering on the sensation.

He handed her the hat, and she looked up at him, desperately searching for something to tell her what was going on in his mind. But, he was all smiles. Nothing more.

"Why are you here," she asked, and of course, he laughed again. She was too overwhelmed to be annoyed.

"Thank you doesn't seem to be in your vocabulary, I begin to fear," he joked.

In response, she went back to walking.
He kept her pace, the umbrella right above her.

She remembered what the priest had said and despite the world crumbling around her, she didnt want to give up on her resolve quite so quickly. Besides, other than his usual sass, he was nothing but a gentleman.

And if she was honest, the gesture of kindness he had just done was almost enough to drive tears into her eyes.
She blinked them away, suddenly ashamed.
"I'm sorry."

He hummed.
"I have to admit," he said, "An apology sounds even sweeter, coming from your lips."

Catherine swallowed harshly. He made it very hard not to regret reaching out a hand.

She kept her head straight, as not to look at him again.

"Now that I delighted you so much," she answered, "Mind giving me an answer?"
"You're persistent."
"Well, I went out of my way, it's only fair that you do, too."

All of a sudden, he came to a stop, and by unwanted reflex, so did she.

He turned to her, angling his head so he could take her face fully in.

"As soon as you got out of this dump, you grew claws," he pointed out, "You're bolder. Snappier. I like it."

Catherine immediately realized why she had avoided to look at him.

To have to look at him so closely was a challenge.
Her breath hitched. Luckily, somehow, she got it under control before it became too noticable.

"You're distracting," she stated.

His eyes scanned every inch of her body, but for some strange reason, it didn't feel like it should.

It wasn't wanting, or physical. Simply very, very analyzing.
As if he was calculating her. And even though she was happy he didn't look at her the same way those men at Dirk's did, it still sent a shiver down her spine.

Something in his eyes was strange. It always had been, but now she was noticing it more intensly than before.
His eyes were never really smiling, yet when he talked to her, to other people, there was a strange gleam in his eyes she could not explain.

Like a kind of surpressed euphoria. Like a child watching an ant burn under a magnifying glass.

"I wanted to bring you your coat," he finally explained, his smile suave, "And ask how you were doing."

She cocked her head, letting him know that she didnt believe him.

"And there I thought we were making progress," he joked.

Catherine realized she was too tired to participate in his games. To stand up to Dirk had taken all the spine she had, and she had to save the rest of her energy to solve the impossible task that lay before her. She was still in pain, and not equipped to handle his riddles after all that had happened.

She didn't break eye contact as she put on her hat.
"Good day, sir," she said before walking away.

She didn't get far, and maybe, she should have seen it coming. Still, she had to surpress a gasp as Alastor caught her arm in a horrifyingly gentle manner as she froze.

Not because of the touch, strangely. It was the fact that for the first time, he had dropped the smile.

"It was very brave, what you did," he mumbled, his fingers sliding down her arm. "You should not be punished for it. I have an offer for you. If you just spare me some of your time, and lend me an ear, I might be able to help you."

For no reason she could explain, tears shot back up into her eyes. She massaged her ring finger harshly, and without noticing.

"But why," she blurted out, "You can't just- why should I- there is no reason-"
She cleared her throat.
"I need answers."

And there it was, his smile. His face lit up again.
"I can hear that."

"And what's this 'offer' about," she went on, "I have nothing to give you."

"Well, I would have to disagree," he stated, "You do not see things as I do. Maybe you just have to trust me for once."
She exhaled as if in defeat. It's not like she had much of a choice. Or any other ideas.
"Alright, then. What's this offer you're talking about?"

His smile grew wider within her first uttered word. Just like that night at the Orpheus, his hand found his way onto the small of her back again, urging her to keep walking.

If she was being let in or out of the underworld, she couldn't tell. And for now, she didn't want to.

"Are you hungry," he asked, "There's this nice establishment just nearby. We could grab a bite."
This man was unbelievable.

"I said I would listen to you," she scoffed, "Not spend unnecessary time with you."

"You wound me," he answered, but it was clear he didn't mean it. Still, a part in her felt guilty.
She didn't get to admit it.

"I won't bore you with a speech in the rain," he said, "The least I can to is to provide a nice enviroment for that. Especially when there's a good chance you'll refuse- and who knows when you'll get your next warm meal then."

While not outright a threat, she still felt the sting. And the fact that he had her cornered either way.

She bit down on her tongue, in hopes she wouldn't panic.
"Fine."

He nodded at her response, as if he had anticipated her approval.
A man that wasn't used to 'no'.

He offered her an arm, and beside herself, she took it.
It's not like she had a chance to escape now anyways. She could smile and play along for just a while- showing her fear wouldn't make a difference.

And for just a moment, and only if she ignored her still-drenched state, she felt like a real lady.
She had never felt like a real lady.

Catherine desperately searched for something snarky to say, before she basked too deeply in the feeling.

"You have a knack for being mysterious, huh," she wondered, "This 'offer' better not disappoint in that regard."

He chuckled, pulling her ever so unnoticably closer.
Her heart had been beating outside her chest for too much time now. She was getting dizzy.

"You amuse me," he replied, his fingers tapping along her arm for a mere moment.

"Thank you," she exclaimed sourly, earning a true laugh from him this time.

He sighed in bliss as she felt his gaze graze along her features.

"Maybe 'offer' was the wrong word, used too rashly," he admitted, "I would rather call it a business proposition."

She snorted.
"That makes even less sense."

His breath tickled her ear, and the shivers she received from that made her knees shake dangerously.
"I can't wait to prove you wrong."

Chapter Text

Alastor hadn't lied. The place he'd brought her to was really quite nice. Which was surprising, considering the part of town.

Even more surprisingly, the restaurant wasn't overly fancy. It was small, dimly lit, the menu full of local cuisine. Still, it hadn't taken long until they'd brought out some kind of sparkling wine, and while she was uncomfortable with the notion of drinking as well as being invited, it was not like she had much to lose.

She had to pass the time somehow, since Alastor had rarely spoken since they'd arrived, much less uttered a single word about this supposed 'business proposition'.

She was already getting agitated, while he provided the occasional small talk without a care in the world.

Catherine poked around in the last bits on her plate, resolving that she was full.

She probably wasn't, but there was a pit in her stomach that would make her nauseous if she kept pushing it. In addition, she would never get used to the spiciness. She didn't feel like overdoing it today.

She was growing impatient. And the fact that he seemed to ignore-or maybe even worse, revel in it- was starting to gnaw at her.

The cutlery clattered as she finally put it down, resting her head on her hand, totally unladylike.

"So," she coughed, "Will you ever start telling me about this 'business proposition'?"

Alastor looked at his fork in consideration.
"Are you familiar with 'Pygmalion'?"

Answering questions with yet another question. Typical. Not getting to the point at all. Even more typical.
Slowly, she got the feeling she would never get out of here. At least it was cozy here.
"The play?"

She seemed to recall something about that, but she wasn't sure. Most of her life, she'd been forbidden from theatres and alike. Now, she was mostly too poor to go. But she wasn't willing to give him the joy of seeing her clueless. As long as he wouldn't quiz her about it, she would be fine.

"The myth," he replied, now laying his fork aside. "Metamorphoses. Ovid."

She cleared her throat, already having to admit defeat.

"I don't think so," she sighed, "Why?"

He smiled to himself, always on top of things. It was exhausting.

"It's this lovely little poem," he explained, "Well, not necessarily little, that was just an expression. I guess for a poem in our modern sense, you would consider it fairly long. And it tells quite the interesting story."

"And i suppose you want to tell it," she sighed, earning yet another laugh from his lips.

"Are you enjoying yourself so little," he wondered, "Is my company so disagreeable to you?"

She couldn't tell if he was serious or not. It was always hard to tell with him, especially when it came to genuine feelings. Never in her life had she met anybody that was so hard to read.

It made her stay alert the whole time, yet if he decided to jump over the table and tackle her down, she would've never seen it coming.

Maybe she should just stop trying. Say what she thinks, and stop her mind from going in circles trying to figure out what was going on behind that charming facade.

It would save her time, that was for sure.

"I just want to get home before the sun comes up again," she argued weakly.

"That isn't answering my question," he had the gall to point out, causing her to stare at him disbelief.

He looked back at her, a brow raised, clearly seeing nothing wrong with his line of logic.

The double standards were enough to make her want to throw up.

Or it was her nervousness. She really didn't want to answer his question. Any of them.

"I'm sure people enjoy your company. You're a great conversationalist. You have a pleasing voice," she said, and regretted it instantly as she saw his eyes light up, "But I listen to men talk about this or that to feel important for a living. I'd rather not do that in my free time."

"You think my voice is pleasing," he repeated her statement, and she was close to grabbing the tablecloth in rage.
"That's what you took from that?!"

"Well, you left your line of work just now," he said nonchalantly, "So, that statement is false. What else should I have pointed out? Every one likes a little flattery now and again."

He was so casual about her situation, it was enraging. Did he have any idea this might mean ruin? He talked of it like it was the best decision of her life.
"I wasn't trying to flatter-"

She interrupted herself, realizing it didn't make sense to start up another discussion. It would only prolong the time she had to spend here.

"So, what's this 'Pygmalion' about, then," she asked instead.

The corners of his mouth flinched upward for a moment, but he didn't comment on her drast change of topic at all. And she had to admit, she was thankful. Keeping track of their conversation was starting to get exhausting, especially since the little sparkling wine she'd had went straight to her head.

"Pygmalion is an artist," Alastor explained, "Disappointed with the moral decline of women."

"How nice," she commented sourly, but he didn't let it deter him.

"He vows to be celibate, and spends his time sculpting," he continued, "Until he creates a statue so perfect, he falls in love with it."

The story sounded strange to her, and she couldn't even explain why.

"So he goes mad, and flings himself off a cliff," she suggested.

Alastor chuckled, pointing the knife at her as if in accusation, which almost made her jump.
It wasn't even sharp. Why the fuss?

"Not at all. That would be a horrible story, and you now it, Catherine," Alastor replied, finally laying down the knife next to his plate again. "On a festival in her honor, Aphrodite turns her into a real woman. Happily ever after."

She wasn't so sure about that.

"Alright," she breathed, "So, what are you trying to tell me? I'm sure you didn't just recount this story for fun."

Something almost warm flashed across his face.
"Your boss really didn't give you enough credit for how clever you are."

Her first intinct was to feel flattered, until she realized it implied that he had bothered Dirk for information about her. Then, her throat tightened. She could've done without this information.

She just looked at him, waiting to continue.
He leaned forward, curiosity sparked.

"Tell me," he murmured, "What are your thoughts on it?
The way he said it made her uncomfortable, strangely. She swallowed the lump in her throat.

"That I am wondering where you're going with this," she replied coldly.

He tapped his fingers on the table. Only now did she notice their elegance. Their slimness. And yet, they looked like he had a strong grip, by the way his tendons flexed, then unflexed, quickly and determined.

He returned the favour by repeating her silence from moments before, calmly staring at her. Catherine squirmed in her chair.

"I don't like it," she finally admitted, "It is a strange story. This Pygmalion sounds like a crazed man, trapped in his own obsession."

He hummed, weighing her answer carefully.

"But isn't the thought exciting," her wondered, "To create something. To improve it to perfection, so much so that it becomes a thing of worship? That something is calculated so perfectly, it takes its first breath after all this careful effort?"

Before she could criticize his view, his ignorance of Aphrodite, the love that clearly was the driving factor, he trapped her gaze in a way that gave her goosebumps.

"Wouldn't you like to come to life," he asked, his voice low and almost dangerous,
"Wouldn't you like to take your first, true breath?"

She blinked too quickly, too often, as her supposed non-existing breath was shaking.

"I am no statue," she retorted, "I am alive."

His head cocked to the side almost mechanically.
"Are you," he asked, watching his fingers tap the table yet again, "Then tell me, Catherine. What have you done with your life to call it worthy of the word?"

Nothing.
She bit her tongue, desperately searching her mind for an answer. Something worthy. Something she had done on her own terms, and not out of survival.

Her mouth went dry as he watched, something like disappointment lacing his expression.

"It might sound ironic to you, sweetheart," Alastor spoke up again before she could react, "But there's something untouched about you. And, if properly tended to, with the right means, of course- there's a chance to form it into something that might rival perfection."

It was ironic, and she didn't appreciate it.

"And you're just the right man to do so," Catherine guessed glumly.

He smiled at her brilliantly.
"Now, now, no need to flatter me even further."

"Why," she simply asked.

She was over the guessing games. She wanted answers, and she wanted to go home. Something in her stomach trickled in excitement, and she had to kill it before it grew.
It was more than she could've ever imagined for herself. A fellow artist, entertainer, a man with influence, seeing some kind of potencial in her.

If only it didn't sound like a trap. She remembered the couple with Alastor weeks before, who had been arguing. His words to her.

Maybe it was always a trap. And maybe she had realized way too late.

"It seems like a worthwhile endeavor," he replied, "To pass the time."
"That's not it," she shot back.
"Isn't it," he questioned as he narrowed his eyes.

"No," she said, with some kind of strange confidence, "You said you lacked entertainment before. But that cannot be all. It would be wasted effort. You want something out of it, and if you don't tell me right now, I will leave."

He looked bored at her ultimatum, making a small 'tsk' sound.
"Are we already resorting to threats? I thought better of you."

He almost sounded like her mother for an eerie second. Still, she wasn't going to back down. Catherine was done with letting him confuse her.
"What do you want from me?"

"Those are two entirely separate questions," he complained in a joking manner, "But since I feel generous, I will answer both of them."

Catherine leaned back and crossed her arms, waiting.
He commented the gesture with yet another smile before taking a deep breath.

"You guessed correctly. I would be greatly entertained, helping you to become the best version of yourself," he admitted, "But it also helps me, in a way. I deal with many, truly egotistical, easily wounded men. I imagine they would have more time to spare listening to a pretty, young woman. A rising star, at that."

Her eyes widened, getting a glimpse of a future he had seemingly already planned out. His gaze drifted away, a corner of his mouth twitching almost unnoticably.

"As to what I want from you," he continued, "Many things. Obedience in all things, although wishful thinking. More likely a favor, or two. Maybe three. To keep our business partnership afloat."

"Favors," she repeated, her voice laced with more horror than she wanted.

Alastor rolled his eyes, a small chuckle escaping him.
"Not sexual favors, silly," he scolded, making her squirm in her chair once more. "Just... anchors. A reassurance that I also get my end of the bargain."

"Control," she corrected, "Control over a silly little girl. Your own statue. To bend the way you want."

He laughed, and it was utterly eerie.
"You got to stop talking about yourself so badly. It just won't do. Twisting my words, as well."
"I'm twisting nothing. You just demanded obedience."

"A jest. As I said, wishful thinking," he chuckled, "Maybe I'll come to find your abrasiveness charming over time."
Or he would squeeze it out of her over time, she thought, not daring to speak it aloud.

"What kind of favors, then," she changed the topic.

"That would remain to be seen," he said, licking his lips, "Only time can tell what kind of needs may arise."

"You want me to agree to something you don't know yet," she huffed, "That sounds insane."

His hand reached over the table, and almost on instinct, she scooted away just a bit. He looked down on his hand, shaking his head ever so slightly before looking upon her once more.

"Look what I'm offering you," he mumbled sweetly, "That's all you ever wanted, isn't it? To sing. To rise above your station. Be someone people admire. Envy, even."

As much as she wanted to disagree, she couldn't. She couldn't utter a word against it, even though she had been sure she has rid herself of vanity. Had beaten it out of herself. With the help of other people.
Well, it seemed like she wasn't.

Against all her better judgement, she leaned closer again.

"If I humored you," she carefully said, "When would this deal end? It would have to end at some point, no?"

Alastor leaned back, and even though she had no apparent proof, it seemed cocky.
"Well, with you reaching the top, of course. And the minor detail of having my favors fullfilled, at a time of my choosing."

Her face soured.
"That is almost as bad as indefinite."
"Do you take me for a procastinator?"

She simply raised her brows, causing him to sigh as if she was being difficult. As if it wasn't her life they were talking about. Again, with a striking similarity to all the discussions she'd had about her life. With family. Other people.
Monsters.

"I don't mean to offend you," he stated, making her expect to be offended, "But humor me this, darling. What choice have you got?"

Instead of feeling offended, all she could make out was heaviness. The truth of his words hit her, weighed her down, pulling her straight into hell, it appeared.

She wanted to be mad at the way he positioned himself as her saving grace. But she couldn't.

Because he was right. She had nowhere to go. She was cornered between despair and impossible choices. While she didn't trust him one bit, or that he had her best interest in mind, sadly, he was the only chance she got.

"Come on, Catherine," he cooed, "Sometimes in life, we have to take a leap of faith."

His wording rearranged something inside her. She stared at him in shock, only to find an unusual openness in his face. Which of course, shocked her even more.

Alastor really wanted her to say yes. And while she couldn't comprehend the reasoning behind it even if she tried, it almost gave him a kind of vulnerability she wasn't prepared for.

Trusting it could turn out to be a grave mistake. Then again, he was right- there was no oppurtunity but this.

"If I agreed," she offered, feeling quite beside herself, "I would have conditions."
"Indulge me."

She took a deep breath.
"I won't... engage in relations if you tell me to." Her voice shook as she spoke it aloud. "I will never do that kind of thing again."

He considered for a moment.
"Done."

A sigh of relief escaped her.
"I don't want to deliberately lie," she continued, her voice gaining in strength, "I don't want to outright deceive someone, so don't make me."
"Boring, but done."

She rolled her eyes as she readied herself for her last, possible condition.
"And I won't hurt anybody. Ever."

He raised a brow, pretending to be deeply offended.
"We'll have to work on your impression of me. Before you hurt me, and my feelings."

She rolled her eyes.
"I didn't say yes yet."

She regretted her 'yet' as soon as he laughed. Only this time, it sounded truly genuine.
How odd.

Even odder, he instantly switched to a serious, daunting tone.

"Is that what you expect of me," he wondered, "That I would make you hurt people?"

She held his gaze, even though it was a challenge to do so.
"How would I know?"

He studied her for an uncomfortable amount of time before he shrugged casually.

"A little upsetting, but good on you for protecting yourself and your morals," he sighed, "Even so, alright. Done."

Suddenly, she was left with no air. He'd agreed to everything she had asked, without much complaint. She was as safe as she could get.

Still, it felt dangerous. To trust him at all.

"How will you know I hold up my end of the deal," she asked.

The corners of his mouth curled up again.
"I have my ways."

Once more, a shiver went down her spine. Every logical bone in her body told her to run.

But his statement stood up. What alternative did she have?
He raised his hand, motioning her to take it.

"So," he purred, "Do we have a deal?"

Catherine hesitated. But not for long. After all this time, and all the play-pretend, she had to admit, she was hungry for a chance.

To reach for the stars.

His hand was soft, and his handshake just as determined as she thought it would be, an unspoken strength in the pressure that should scare her.

It was over quicker and slower than she anticipated, all at the same time.

He leaned back, his tongue snapping against the roof of his mouth.

"Now," he said casually, "To call in my first favor."

Her heart started racing as he casually stopped his speech to pay, wish the waiter well, and empty his glass.

Only then did he start talking again. It made her question her choice to shake hands with him almost immediately.

"For my first favor, I'd like you to be at my back-and-call," he clarified, "I will tell you where to be, what to wear, and expect you to be generally pleasing. Although we might have to work on that one."

A favor with an open end. This was starting out well.
"For professional purposes? Not for private ones?"

"Of course," he reassured, his expression back to unreadable.

Suddenly, her chest felt tight.
"Done."

His smile was brilliant as he pulled the chair back and helped her get up elegantly.

"We're gonna have so much fun," he beamed, and clearly meant it.

Regret was nothing compared to the feelings that went through her in that moment. Her stomach turned. Her mind went blank.

All in the moment it settled in that she might have just sold her soul.

Chapter Text

July 1931.

Catherine's laughter was dazzling, and as clear as the crystal glasses overflowing with champagne.

The man opposite to her looked like he wanted to bottle it right up, and take it home.

Prohibition was a joke, if you were in the right circles. Just as much as this man, whose name she'd already misplaced mindlessly.

That wasn't her job. She was simply trying to provide some entertainment.

The air filling the room was warm and humid, the sound of the band floating, swinging through as if on wings.
Catherine's foot tapped along, her gaze scanning the room for a familiar face.

Easy to spot, as usual. All across the room, even. The silhouette, even the way he was standing had gotten so familiar to her, it didn't come as a surprise.

She didn't have time to catch his attention since she had to divert it back to the man in front of her again.

"It's a shame, that's what it is," the man continued a point she hadn't heard, "I mean, what are us folk supposed to do? The police doesnt help, and we keep dropping like flies? This cannot be a coincidence."

Luckily, she realized that he was talking about the continued murders in his circle.
In her circle.

Well, she was glad she hadn't zoned out for too long. And had to try not to do so again, even though the thought of her social climb invited her to do so.

She leaned forward, patting his knee with feigned sympathy.

Something her and Alastor had fought over many, many times. She'd argued that it violated her condition of lying and deception- he had argued against it, naturally. And quite well. Perfectly, in fact.

It wasn't deception to make people think you mean well; lately, she'd been doing it of her own free will.

A little white lie didn't hurt if the alternative was hurting anybody's feelings. She could pretend to be kind, just as Alastor had said.

And if she was honest, there was nothing more she could do than pretend. Maybe her moral standing had taken a downfall, yet there was nothing close to compassion she could feel listening to this man.

Prostitutes were murdered every day, and nobody cared. People like her friends, and noone batted an eye. People like she had been.

And now that it affected them, it was a problem. If she was honest, it disgusted her.

So she took Alastor's advice and just pretended. With time, it didn't seem so horrible anymore.

Catherine patted his knee some more, listened to imagined problems until she could finally smile and say, "You should really meet my friend."

She redirected him, as she did so often, implying that she was quite parched, if only to get out of the way.

Catherine took a breath of relief as soon as she was out of reach.

Despite the fact that it wasn't so horrible anymore, it still took a toll on her.

Hungry stares would always bring her discomfort, even if they were from a safe, chosen distance now.

A lot of things had changed, but not all of them.

A new glass in hand, she let the bubbles play against her tongue as she watched over the large room from an elevated, as secluded as possible, place. She leaned against against the railing, sighing before taking another sip.

Her conscience needed a break.

Catherine couldn't help but smile as she looked down on several couples dancing. With the warm, yellow light, the music filling the air as well as laughter, it seemed like the room was pulsing.
And somehow, that seemed lovely to her.

No matter how much time would pass, occasions like this one always seemed like a dream she would wake up from.
And sometimes, she was anxious not to. That noone would be able to pop the fairytale bubble, and she could continue to live like this.

She recognized the voice against her ear immediately, and had no reason to shy away.

"Indulge me," Alastor mused, "Whatever could be so funny, earning a smile like that?"
Her lips curled up just a bit higher.
"You wouldn't understand."
"Try me."

Because she felt a little fiendish, she changed the topic of conversation immediately.

Keeping him on his toes couldn't hurt. And also, he didn't need to know everything.

That wasn't part of the deal. To know her innermost thoughts. Or the things that made her laugh, even.

"I spent all this time praising you to this man," she complained, if only in jest, "Shouldn't you be down there?"

His chuckle tickled her ear.
"Maybe I'm in the mood for more engaging conversation," he suggested.

She turned her head slightly, to make out at least some of his frame.

To have him im the corner of her eye had less chance to make her nervous than only being able to guess his moods.
As much as she had grown comfortable, she was afraid it would never stop. Them trying to outguess each other, be one step ahead- she was sure it was a fun game to him. She wasn't entirely sure about it.

And admitting that it was indeed fun would raise a series of questions she wasn't prepared for.

"And so you come and find me," she joked, "Don't make me blush, now."
"Too late."

She could almost feel his smile against her cheek, even though he wasn't touching her in any way.

She cleared her throat, suddenly agitated. She turned to lean against the railing, hoping the gained distance would be her saving grace. The railing burrowed into her back ever so slightly, and in a strange way, it felt comforting.

Almost as comforting as having the chance to watch Alastor now. He was still as hard to read as ever, but over time, Catherine had gotten good at noticing at least some of the subtleties; the way his mouth twitched almost unnoticably when he was genuinely displeased; the shift in his eyes when he was trying to figure something out.

It made it easier to be around him. Although no amount of careful screening was ever enough to let her guard down. After all, it still seemed impossible to ever truly figure out what was going on in his head.

And the fact that despite his claim of not being someone to procastinate, she was still waiting on any new favor to be asked in vain.

But she wouldn't let her nerves get to her, much less show it. So, she simply smiled at him.
"All my hard work, and you let it go to waste? I'm disappointed."

"I would never," he defended himself, "I'm simply taking some time. He won't run, I assume."

The smile playing along his lips fell into the category of unreadable.

"Taking your time," she repeated, accidentally not hiding the disdain in her voice, "That's what you do well, surely."

He shook his head playfully.
"What a shame," he commented, combing a lock behind her ear, "You were doing so good."

She gritted her teeth, knowing she had been too forward. She wasn't the only one improving her ability to read him, and she had just let him know that she was getting impatient.

Catherine watched his eyes light up in delight, and rolled her own.

"What's the plan anyways," she asked, desperate to change the subject, "What makes this man so great?"

Alastor scanned her, deciding to let her off the hook. She was almost grateful.

"Oh, nothing," he casually replied, "They never are. It's his investments, his contacts I'm interested in."

She raised her brows. It was nothing new, yet she realized she never delved deeper into the why. And right now, she welcomed any distraction.

"You keep doing so," she observed, "What more could you possibly salvage?"

He shrugged, leaning forward enough for her breath to hitch ever so subtly.
"Well, you can never have too much money, or importance," he said.

Catherine huffed a breath of annoyance in response.
"Or, entertainment," she added sourly.

"I work tirelessly to get your career off the ground, and you thank me with contempt," he stated, "You wound me."

She couldn't help but smirk at his remark.
"I'm sure you'll be fine. Or do you need me to praise you so you feel better? And finally do what you set out to do, instead of bumming around here with me?"

His face spoke of pure enjoyment as he watched her at least try and tear him to shreds. Oh well, it had been worth a try.

"You couldn't praise me, even if you tried" he claimed, "Your pride would never allow you to."

Her first instinct was to deny being prideful at all; that's what she would've done in the past.

And if she wanted to get ahead of him at least in some ways, maybe it was time to be less predictable.

To become someone else. Or at least a better, different version of herself.

One that wasn't easily riled up. Impossible to hurt.

Catherine straightened her spine, an empathetic hand reaching out to squeeze Alastor's arm.

"You do work tirelessly," she agreed sweetly, "And I am beyond grateful. You do so well of a job, sometimes I can't believe it."

Of course, she was exagerrating to get a rise out of him. But she had to admit: the statement, no matter how out of proportion, bore some truth. One and a half years had passed, but a lot of time had been spent on preparation, lessons, and such. The act of actually getting her into the scene, to let her experience recognition had happened extremely quickly.

He knew what he was doing. Always. And now, she was reaping the benefits, more and more each day.

Yet she was so comfortable making fun of him. Yet he hadn't uttered a single word about the second favor yet, much less what he was waiting for.

What a strange situation to be in. And slowly, one she wanted to get out of.

At least out of this particular conversation.
Catherine let go of his arm, trying to walk past him.
He caught her hand, turning her back to face him. His thumb grazed over her hand quicky, and almost absent-mindedly, before he let her go.

"Your lying improved so much," he complimented, "One could almost be proud."

She rubbed her hand, trying to avoid the ring finger, and to forget what his touch had felt like, to rid herself of the sensation.

"What can I say," she replied, "I have a great teacher."

He commented her added praise with a small huff.

"I have need of you tomorrow night," he said, looking down at her hands, which caused her to let them fall down to her side. "Rest your voice. And your wits, although appreciated. I want you to meet a friend of mine, and I need you to shine."

His quick switch to business left her weary.
How did he keep doing that?

"Alright, then," she answered, trying to keep her voice stable, "Thank you for the notice."

"Of course," he mused, looking over her down on the people. "Before I stop 'bumming around', as you so kindly put it, care for a dance?"

She looked down as well, her eyes on the couples dancing once more.

A part of her really wanted to say yes; it wouldn't have been the first time, and it was really fun. Besides, being seen with him had only done her good- even if reading gossip about herself in the papers was highly uncomfortable. Especially regarding their relationship.
He thought it was hilarious, naturally.

But since she still hadn't figured out what exactly tickled his fancy in the slightest, it was highly likely that he just... didn't care much. Why should he, if it was entirely his own to think about?

It was almost enough to make her jealous. How nice it must feel, knowing that no one could make you stumble. Not even just romantically. In general. To stand so confidently in life, nobody was able to take you down even a notch.

"No thank you," she heard herself answer while smiling, "I think I need some fresh air. Rest my breath, you know."

His smile almost looked disappointed.
"I have to admit," he said, "Hearing you use every single thing I tell you against me truly never gets old."

Catherine looked up at him, not gracing him with an answer.

She wondered if time would make it easier to hold eye contact, but she didn't want to get her hopes up.

Alastor stepped closer, rearranging her necklace. It should feel like an intimate gesture, yet something about it was so devoid of feeling, that it didn't really deserve the word.

There was never a boundary crossed to make it feel too close. There was no reason to be nervous about it, or wonder what it meant. Nothing, probably.

Well, it was caring. She couldn't lie to herself about that as she held her breath without thinking. But, nothing more.

"What did he talk about anyway," Alastor wondered, his hands almost accidentally grazing her neck, "When you two were down there?"

She swallowed, trying to overplay her small moment of weakness.

"The only thing anyone talks about these days," she shrugged, almost too casually, "Murder."

He stepped away, his fingers flexing for a mere moment, his eyes fixated on something she couldn't pinpoint.

"Ah, refreshing," he commented, an amused twinkle in his eyes, "Thank you for the challenge, to get that mind to think some more positive thoughts."

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling at the ridiculousness.
Sometimes, there was no other way to bear it.

"See you later," she stated, and this time, he let her go without a fuss.

Catherine was sure she felt his gaze burrow into her back, and without meaning to, she got goosebumps.
She was probably just imagining things.

It took some time to find a space outside that was unoccupied, and with great disappointment, she had to realize it was still just as humid outside as inside.
It didn't matter. She leaned against the wall, heaving, wishing to just slump down.

Of course she couldn't, not without damaging the intricate beading on her dress, as she would never hear the end of that. And she surely wasn't in the mood for anymore 'banter', carefully crafted conversation where half the things said didn't mean what they should.

Only now that she was alone was she able to feel the full scope of the pains inside her chest, caused by the fact that she hadn't breathed properly for hours now.

And the conversation she'd just had only made it worse.
She clutched at her chest, trying to get her breathing under control, which now had more resemblance to a gasp, one after the other.

A part of her wanted to go up to the edge of the balcony, and jump. Of course, that wasn't an option. She was still as devout as she could be, at least until the guilt fully consumed her.

Her other hand grabbed onto the wall, nails digging into stone until it hurt. She was afraid she would be sick, retching up all her organs in the process.

Her current panic had been building up for quite some time, and she cursed herself for not being able to keep it in until she got home.

It was a waste, to not use a pretty apartment to cry a little in it. She laughed at the thought, beside herself, up until it got stuck in her throat again.

She couldn't do this anymore. She needed to get out.

If only she knew how. Catherine was sure she would laugh again- until she felt tears burning in her eyes.

The more time passed, the more she was sure something horrible was bound to happen.

She didn't have a reason to, well at least none that made any sense, but she couldn't help the feeling anymore. She only knew that with every passing day, she was scared what waited for her on the other side of that stupid, stupid deal she'd made.

At that time, she didn't have much choice, of course; and Alastor had done nothing but hold up the end of his bargain.

It should've been her turn by now. The longer he waited, the more attention she garnered- the more she had to lose. And for the first time in her life, she felt like she had something to lose, other than her dignity.

And he had to know that, right? Of course. It was all a plan to get the most out of it.

She wasn't even surprised. She was scared.

He'd never been motivated by kindness. Entertainment, of course, but slowly she got the feeling the price she had to pay would come at too high a cost. She had no idea what he was planning, and while he'd never given her the impression that he was cruel, or out to hurt her, she couldn't be sure.

He was a man, after all. With leverage over her. And if the past was any indication, even if that thought had come way too late, she cound be sure it wouldn't end well for her.

It never had. The added mystery, the difference with him compared to other situations she'd found herself in only made it worse. In the past, she'd known what to expect. Now, it was a free fall. There was possibly only one situation she could compare this mess to, but she'd sworn herself to never think of it again.
It would be her ruin.

Her eyes fell shut as she tried to get her breathing under control, once again harshly massaging her finger.

She really had to unlearn this habit. Along with many others.

As much as going back on a promise was something she didn't want to do, she had no choice but to figure out how to get out of this mess, before her nerves consumed her.
Or worse. He found out.

Her eyes fluttered open again as she looked up at the stars, with half a mind to pray. She couldn't, not with all her traitorous thoughts, and the feeling of Alastor's thumb against her neck still engraved into her mind.

Slowly, her breathing slowed, leaving her with only her thundering heart.

The night sky gave her a sense of hope. She would find a way around this, out of this. She needed to.
A sigh escaped her lips.

If it took running, hiding, lying- she could do it.

It all had been a dream after all- and it was time to wake up before the past finally caught up to her.

Chapter Text

Alastor had imagined this timeframe to feel more like sitting on hot coals. It was, of course, but by far not as daunting, even as boring as he imagined.

In fact, the whole ordeal was quite exhilerating. Even more than he originally assumed.

Of course he was excited for the violent, depraved part of the plan. It was simply unexpected that everything around it finally got him out of the slump he'd found himself in now one and a half years earlier.

Sadly, his plans would have to resume soon enough, he thought with some disappointment as he looked up at Catherine on stage, sweetly singing the songs she'd pouted about before.

She had a distaste for love songs, which was as predictable as it was hilarious.

Unfortunately, it was what worked best. It ignited fantasies in certain fellows that helped him greatly.

And nothing would ever truly compare to the giddiness he felt about the fact that creating this picture of loveliness and innocence had led men straight to their grave.

In creating Catherine, he'd simulaneously created the perfect bait for his other, darker pursuits. The thought alone made it hard to stay put.

And she had no idea. It was to die for.

He wondered, if she knew, would she complain less or more about the love songs? He'd never find out, tragically, since her knowing would end the game prematurely.
And it was just about to get fun.

He looked away, as not to be overcome with the excitement of what was about to happen soon, and instead looked back to locate his friend.

She was still in the same spot as when she first had slipped away, flirting with some man while sharing a cigar Alastor had refused.

In the past, he wouldn't have; in social situations, it could have it advantages to indulge in certain practices, and he hadn't minded. Now, he was aware that Catherine absolutely detested it, and he'd ceased to do so.

It turned out that most people's trust was easier to obtain than hers. Never hers. As much fun as it was to try and please her, he knew she never let her guard down.

Which could pose a difficulty or another, if not even stopping nasty habits and some light grovelling didn't do the trick.

Although couldn't really complain, he realized as applause thundered through the room and she descended into a grateful bow.

It kept him on his toes. A difficulty or two was what made it exciting. And he had to admit, the carefully kept distance, the almost forced recoil every time he got too close, and her ever-so alerted eyes watching his every move had a charm that made it hard to contain himself sometimes.

Sometimes, it seemed like she felt it in her bones that she was being preyed upon. And sometimes, that just made him want to pounce and snap that pretty, little neck, simply to prove that despite all her silly carefulness, he would get to her quicker than she could ever run.
That no fighting or thrashing, intuition, divine intervention even, could save her.

It was difficult not to get impatient then. Cross his own plans, just to feel her flesh get cold just a little sooner. To have this power in his hands, see the fear in her eyes before they dimmed.

All in due time. Just a little while more. After all, this death had to be perfect. Otherwise, it would have been a waste of time. Everyone could kill whores. Everyone could kill a socialite, a starlet, even.

But to create perfection, just to destroy it- now, that was true art.

Applause seized, and Alastor sighed, motioning his friend to rejoin him, which was met with an eye roll as she fondled the mans chest some more, desperate for some attention.
It lifted his spirits, to look at what had become of his friend's talents, knowing he'd already done a far better job with Catherine.

He stood up, deciding to just fetch her first.
Catherine stepped out from backstage, her face slightly flushed from the lights and singing.

He bowed his head slightly as a greeting, and he watched her almost smile at him.

"Any criticisms," she challenged him immediately, "Do i have something between my teeth that made you laugh at me all throughout?"

He laughed, shaking his head before reaching out to rearrange a stray lock of hair that would otherwise bother him endlessly.

She fidgeted way too much, and he hadn't yet figured out how to get her to stop.

"You were divine," he stated, delighting in her slight discomfort at his misuse of holy language, "The only criticism I have is that you weren't up there longer."

She scanned his face for lies-it almost warmed his heart.
Catherine's eyes narrowed.
"How did you get them to give me a spot anyways? This is a very fancy party."

"I had a few favors to cash in," he shrugged, proud of the fact she contained her disdain at the word this time. "Besides, dear Catherine, in case you haven't noticed- people are mesmerized by you. They want to see you."

"With you, probably," she replied, her eyes large and sparkling, yet not devoid of uncertainty.

Questioning. In extend herself, of course, but suddenly he noticed something else.

She was looking for his approval. It shouldn't surprise him, considering that he was a manager, a mentor to her even, but then- she made a point of defying him in the small ways she dared to.

Yet, there it was, that almost desperate shine; a small, badly hidden wish to maybe please him, too.

He felt a heat in his bloodstream, the gears in his head turning overtime, an oppurtunity finally reavealing itself.
Maybe she didn't have to trust him after all- maybe he just had to cater to her wishes.

And let her work hard to unravel him. To get the truth, the praise she seemed to want. The praise she would finally believe.
Interesting.

So he uttered not another word, simply offering her his arm, which she surprisingly took without a single complaint.
He smiled to himself, looking down for a quick moment to watch out for some more fidgeting.

Her hand lay still on his forearm, and he wondered if maybe, he wasn't giving her enough credit for her transformation.

Then, he noticed that two of her nails were chipped, adorned with the tiniest speck of blood.

He stopped his brows from furrowing, and had apparently lingering on the sight for too long.

"Is everything alright," Catherine asked, yet it sounded more accuastory than worried.
Ah. The endless cat-and-mouse.

He was faced with more distrust than usual. With some regret, he realized he'd maybe gotten a little too carried away last night. It was simply too fun to enjoy their banter, to tickle some reaction or another out of her, especially since she'd sharpened her wits, making the whole ordeal seem more like an intricate dance than a slaughter.

The difference in tone now caused her to question him. Clever on her end, but not practical for him in the slightest. Although it had its allure, to know that she was watching him just as intently as he was watching her.

He decided to retain his findings for later, when he had time to figure out what could've caused her a wound before he failed the task at hand.

To make her believe there was nothing to worry about.
Alastor forced his face into something close to annoyance.

"I was so anxious for you to meet my friend," he explained, "And I simply worry she might keep us waiting."

His pretended worry proved unwarranted quickly, as he watched his friend waltz right into their direction, a big, unbothered smile on her face.

"Alastor," she exclaimed pulling him into a harsh embrace as if they saw each other for the first time tonight, "It's so good to see you!"

He patted her shoulder, gently pushing her away. He wasn't fond of being touched when he wasn't the one to initiate, but he let it pass since it was appropiate, considering their friendship seemed deep and sincere to the outside.

Catherine's hand had since left his arm, as she had taken a step back, eyes slightly widened.

"Catherine," Alastor said, "Meet my good friend, Mimzy."

They shook hands, and he felt it was a stroke of luck that his observations now made him watch out for more signs, letting their meeting have a deeper reason than originally planned. Shamefully, he had to admit that prior, he just wanted to see how and if they would clash, if only to provide some amusement on his end.

He really needed to lower his indiscretions, if he wanted to get to the point sometime soon. But oh well. Now, it could supply some much needed answers.

Catherine repeated her name, as if it confused her. He wanted to tell her that it was a pseudonym, since she didn't like the name Mildred very much, and believed Mimzy has more 'pizazz'.

But he felt like it wasn't his place, and far too early to be judgmental, so he settled on simply observing.

Catherine shot him a look, as if in disbelief.

He answered with a small smile. It was adorable, that him not talking for once idicated something was clearly wrong.
She knew him better than he gave her credit for.

Mimzy scanned Catherine up and down, with a look of dismissal. She shrugged, turning back to Alastor with a large smile.

"How have you been," Mimzy asked, closing too much space between them, "How come I don't see you around anymore? It's been so long since we had some fun."

Catherine's face contorted, and was very much trying to hide it. Not well enough, at least for him.

She was offended. But that wasn't all: next to some disbelief, the flickering burn in her eyes was hard to ignore.
Things were about to get interesting.

"Well, I was very busy," he replied, "To make sure Catherine's exactly where she needs to be."

A sour expression didn't suit Mimzy. It made her look like what she was so desperately trying to push herself away from.
Old.

To her opposite, Catherine's shoulders relaxed, giving her the slender, elongated silhouhette back that was so fashionable right now. He surpressed a smile, now perfectly understanding Mimzy's issue.

It would've greatly entertained him, if his expectations hadn't been so sufficiently raised. Rightly so.

Where Mimzy could only spare a dissatisfied hum, Catherine's eyes lit up.

"Oh dear," Catherine exclaimed, "How could I have forgotten! I remember you, from a concert I quite enjoyed. In '28, was it?"

Now, she had garnered Mimzy's attention.
"Might be," she replied, almost taken aback from Catherine's sudden enthusiasm.

"I always wanted to see you again," Catherine added, "But I've never seemed to catch your name on anything. And now, it's been 4 years... I do hope you're quite well?"

Alastor, quite out of character, almost choked on the laughter he desperately tried to hold in.

Mimzy's face was a mask of rage, failing to keep it from being apparent with much more difficulty.

"Were you even old enough to be all by yourself then," Mimzy wondered, trying to sound sweet, "A young girl, all alone in the world?"

Catherine took a moment to think, one that probably seemed longer to Mimzy than him.

Her eyes lingered on him, the slightest, almost proud, if not dangerous smile dancing around the corners of her mouth, as if to dare him to watch what she had learned.

She was petty, the line to cruelty misty- and without a shred of uncertainty.

It was thrilling to watch. What had become of his little detour.

So he obliged without a second thought, watching her tear Mimzy to shreds.

"It seems I was," Catherine finally answered, "Time does fly, doesn't it? Especially the older you get. I'm sure you understand better than I."

Mimzy was intelligent enough to understand that she had been insulted, yet not able to reply with something remotely clever.

What a shame, that it wouldn't be the lesson it could be to Mimzy, who had a hard time taking anything serious at all, not to mention a woman several years her junior. A sense of pride surged through him, simply knowing his hard work had not only paid off, but exceeded his expectations in every sense.

With his help, his teachings, Catherine was growing cleverer, and more importantly: confident.

And the thought of not only shaping her exactly as he wanted, but taking her down in her prime, making her lose all that newfound confidence as soon as she realized there was no way to run, to beg and plead herself out of his hands pressing down on her slim little throat- it was almost too much to bear. Once again.

Just as he settled on thinking different thoughts, to limit the excitement he felt, the man from last night waved Catherine over from across the room. It had slipped his mind, that he would be there as well.

It was a shame it would cut this very interesting quarrel short, but there was still much work to do if he wanted to have his fun with this man before summer ended.

Cutting up a fat man was always a diverting challenge.

Catherine waved back before turning back to them once more. She raised a brow at Alastor, who replied with a small nod.

Only then did she smile at the two.
"I'll leave you two to it then," she beamed, "I'm sure you have a lot to catch up on."

Her acting was fine enough, save for the undertone laced around her words absent-mindedly.

Catherine didn't like to leave them to it. In fact, as he studied her, he realized she was dissatisfied at best, and indignant if you cared to read into it.

And he did care. After all, if his own hubris didn't betray him right this moment, she seemed downright jealous.

What a turn of events. It hadn't seemed far-fetched, to assume she felt some sense of attraction, but this... he needed to dive deeper, do some research.

A game-changing discovery, to be sure.

Mimzy didn't grace her with a proper goodbye, as she was still very much pouting.

Catherine shot him one last look, a smile wandering over her lips. For just a moment, he wanted to keep her eyes on him- patience was a virtue, yet it irked him, that he had to play the long game again, just to figure out what had prompted her feelings, and to get a chance to use them against her, just to make it all the more tragic. And bloody.
At least she never disappointed.

"Come find me later," she asked without waiting for an answer.

Rude. But oh well. At least, Alastor enjoyed a good chase.
He watched her walk away with a smile on his face, her body moving along with the motions of walking under the exposed skin of her bare back.

Mimzy pulled on his arm, and he hoped for her sake that her impatience hadn't creased his shirt.

He looked down at her disgruntled face, now adorned with something similar to disappointment.
"You cannot be serious."

Alastor simply hummed, not bothering to answer her accusatory question.

Mimzy wouldn't understand the intricacies, the utter, feverish gratification he felt watching her leave to do his bidding; she would dismiss it as affection, carnal relief, when it was something so hugely different.

And he was more than happy that she didn't. That it was all his, this tiny pocket in his mind dedicated to his plan, his self nearly imploding with all the pesky waiting he had to do.

But then, he knew it would be worth it, as he resumed to watch her walk away.

He would bide his time, watch her walk away now, and too often to count- knowing that someday soon, he would make it worth it, and she would know just how horrible of an idea it was to turn her back on him.

And then, it would be too late.

Chapter Text

August 1931.

If there was any indication for Catherine's moral decline, at least any apparent one, it was that she didn't truly mind the smell of Theo's cigars anymore.

Or maybe it was a sign they had become good friends. She wasn't entirely sure.

It was a strange feeling, to frequent the same places you used to, even though your life, even you as a person, had changed so significantly.

It felt like putting a doll in a house it was too big for.
Feeling like a doll. A puppet. It was all the same.
Nothing fit: her status, her clothing, even the way she spoke- she constantly felt like she was being stared at, but in a different light than before. Even here, in this almost empty bar.

And her friends were just too nice to point it out.

She wanted to find comfort in them, unchanged, getting through life, and sometimes she did. But lately, and especially today, she had a hard time to follow along in conversation, desperately trying not to fidget her hands too much.

Her panic from the night weeks ago hadn't gone away, and instead imbedded itself into her chest so deeply, she hardly knew how to breathe anymore.

The reason Esther and Theo had no chance to remedy any of it was her fault; Catherine had finally caved, and told them all about her grievances.

Well, almost. Certain things, she kept to herself. Things that would out her as a hypocrite.

It was a shame that Catherine had a hard time following, as her friends discussed the issue at hand lively. Occasionally, Theo shot her a look she couldn't pinpoint.

If it was disappointment or worry or something else entirely, she couldn't tell.

Alastor could have, probably. But he wasn't here, luckily. He would have opinions about her still visiting a place he would probably call a dump. It was for the better that he didn't know- and she wasn't inclined to ever tell him.

At least it gave her some sense of power, to keep things from him. It would've been nicer if he wasn't present at all, not her mind, not the conversation, but she feared that kind of freedom just wasn't possible anymore. And silly, considering she'd specifically asked them to discuss him.

Maybe she hadn't changed as much as she'd assumed.

Now, her hand finally snapped into place, massaging her ring finger harshly. It calmed her enough to notice Esther calling out her name as she took a sip of whiskey, the ice only masking some of the taste.

Certainly, not all had changed.

"I still don't understand," Esther said, "I'm sorry, but what's so bad about your situation exactly?"

Catherine's look of disbelief paired with Theo's eyeroll caused Esther to put up her hands defensively.

"Look, you have money," Esther defended herself, "You have means. People adore you. What's the problem?"

"Maybe the fact that she is under contract," Theo suggested, "Which is in very uncertain terms?"

Esther leaned forward, a look of genuine confusion on her face. She wasn't trying to be rude, or condescending.
"So? From all I've heard, he's a decent man. He doesn't hit you, or touch you. Why throw stability away if there's no danger?"

Theo's face contorted at the word 'decent', while Catherine just fidgeted some more.

She realized she had no way of explaining it. How could she ever try to even bring sense into the way her heartbeat picked up a pace every time he entangled her in conversation, and talked like he was alluding to something that hadn't happened yet? That without reason, she broke out in cold sweat when she woke up to turn over his words he'd said at the restaurant, trying to find a hidden meaning? And that everytime their eyes met, her body, without any apparent reason, told her to run?

A decent man. More than anyone in her position could ever dare to ask for.

And something that sounded like a lie.

"It's just a... feeling," she tried to explain carefully, "That something is wrong."

Esther's furrowed brows felt like a stab to the chest.
"You're willing to throw your life, your comfort away over a... feeling?"

Catherine realized how silly she sounded. How spoiled, childish, maybe even outright crazy. It made sense that Esther didn't understand- they'd been in the same position.

Stability was a dream, coming from a line of work like they did. To not be an object of violence- it was luck. That was why no matter his antics, Esther would stay with Dirk.

No sane woman would ever let that go. And Catherine should know better.

But as her eyes wandered over to Theo, she found nothing but understanding.

And that was as heartwarming as it was jarring.

Esther's head turned to, and Theo shook his head. She sighed, balancing her chin on her hand.

"Alright," she said, "So we have to figure out a way to get you out of this."

Catherine smiled, relieved that no matter their differences, Esther would never abandon her.

"What about distance," Theo suggested, "If you live far away, it would be hard to cash in any favors."

Esther gasped and grabbed Catherine's hand.
"Cathy can't go away," she protested.

"I don't know if it would do anything," Catherine cut in, "Chances are, he'd find me everywhere I go."

Esther's look resembled horror, and Catherine almost didn't understand. He'd said that he 'had his ways'. It was second nature to think he could.

Well, Esther rightfully thought it sounded horrific.

Nonsensically, it gave Catherine a sense of guilt. No matter the situation, it didn't feel good to talk about Alastor this way, especially with no way to prove her feeling right.

Like he was some kind of cruel creature.

She tried to remedy her earlier statement, but all she could think to say wasn't exactly putting anything in a better light.
"I would be in the same place again. Alone, unprotected, vulnerable. It wouldn't change much."

For some reason, Esther's eyes lit up at her words. It confused her, since her line of thinking reminded her too much of Alastor, and it made her uncomfortable.

Both friends looked at Esther, wondering what had sparked her sudden enthusiasm.

"Unprotected, you say," Esther commented, "What if you weren't?"

"What do you mean," she asked, slowly getting a sinking feeling.

"What if there was someone who had to protect you by law," Esther continued.

By now, Catherine's heart had fully sunk into her stomach, realizing what she was suggesting.

Theo still looked confused, and Esther playfully rolled her eyes at that.

"What man would ask a woman for immoral favors," Esther wondered aloud, "If it broke the holy sanctity of marriage?"

Catherine suddenly felt dizzy. She wasn't sure if she'd shook her head or not, until she felt Theo's calming hand on her shoulder without warning.

She flinched, and almost missed Theo's concerned question about her state, and Esther's glee about her genius.

"It's perfect," Esther said, "You won't have to run, and are safe from anything you could be scared of, or not?"

The question didn't sound like one. But it was hard to tell, since her ears were ringing so much. Theo's hand had since left her shoulder, and he seemed disgruntled about the fact that Esther wasn't entirely wrong.

"I can't," Catherine managed to get out, "Anything but that."

She didn't want to explain, but the now seemingly prying looks made it hard not to.

But she couldn't. She'd sworn herself to never talk about if. If only one word of it left her lips, she knew she would collapse under the weight of her secret.

Luckily, they both decided not to pry after all.

She was still so easy to read, proving Alastor right at every turn. Catherine could be glad that they accepted her silence because clearly, that meant she was still a bad liar.

Esther's expression softened, and Catherine hated the pity in it.
She didn't deserve pity.

"It wouldn't have to be... real, you know," Esther said.

Catherine frowned. That wasn't how it was supposed to be. Then again, she wasn't the one to have any complaints.
It's not like she knew anything about how it was supposed to be.

Once again, Esther's eyes gleamed as she got another idea that was bound to make Catherine cry herself to sleep tonight, trying to shake off the memories.

But Esther looked at Theo, another secret if theirs on both their faces.
"No," Theo said firmly.

Esther reached out, grabbing his hand.
"Wouldn't that solve your problems too?"

He pulled away with a pained look in his eyes.
"What problems," Catherine asked, happy to change the subject.

It was hard to hide the hurt she felt at the fact that even after all this time, noone bothered to let her in on any secrets.

Just for once, she wanted to feel like a part of something, someone. But maybe she had missed the mark, done so many wrong things she didn't deserve it anymore.

Theo and Esther exchanged glances, causing him to sigh.
"Maybe," he admitted.

There it was again, her thunderous heart. Before she could shake her head or react in any way, Esther gasped as she looked at the clock right over the bar.

"I have to go," she exclaimed, "Dirk'll be waiting for me."

She downed the last of her drink without a bit of a face, stood up and kissed Catherine's cheek.

"I'll leave you to it," she said, "Just think about it. Maybe it's the easiest way."

Esther's absence made the silence between them heavy. Catherine looked around awkwardly, realizing that they were the only two people left.

She looked back at Theo, who seemed to struggle with the decision whether to keep silent or not. Meanwhile, Catherine weighed her options. Maybe it was best to go home.

Finally, and before she could say anything, he sighed. He dragged a rag across the wood of the bar, cleaning up the traces Esther left behind.

"I played the trumpet," he said, "At the Orpheus."
Catherines brows rose.
"Really?"

"Oh, yes." His smile was lopsided. "And pretty good, if the stories are to be believed."

She almost smiled back. She would have, if there wasn't this horrid sense of doom that crept up her throat, realizing this story wasn't likely one to have a happy end.

"Why did you stop," she asked anyways.

Theo swallowed harshly, his eyes mirroring the fight that had to be going on inside his mind.

"I fell in love," he choked out.

"With the wrong woman," Catherine added.

Theo's eyes flickered, worry, sadness, and nervousness passing by in quick succession.

His voice was barely audible as he spoke up again.
"He was... a very important person," he corrected her, his gaze flickering back and forth, as if to catch her reaction early.

Surprise, embarassment even, hit her without a warning.
She didn't mean to say 'oh', yet she did anyway. Now she realized why Theo and Esther hadn't let her in on their secrets: he'd been scared that because of her religion, she would be judgmental.

No matter how sad it was, they had the right to assume so.
All her life, she had blindly listened to the church, to God- but after all the depravities she'd seen, she just wasn't convinced this kind of preference was something to go to hell over.

She'd go first, that was certain. Goosebumps wandered across her body, and she only hid it with great exhaustion.

Theo looked at her waitingly, but there was nothing she could say to remedy his worry, or be a comfort.

So she simply grabbed his hand, squeezing it, hoping he would realize he wasn't alone.

His face relaxed, and only then did she have the courage to pry a little.

"What happened," she asked.
He pulled his hand away.

"What always happens," he replied, "I thought we were in love. But turns out, his reputation was more important than me."

Without meaning to, she had to think of Alastor. How he seemed so untouchable, when that was probably far from the truth. How much of a gamble he'd taken on her, coming from such a low profession. If only one person had ever recognized her, things would have turned sour sooner or later.

He had to be aware. And she didn't know what to make of it.

"He ratted you out," she concluded, "To save face."

Theo nodded, and she couldn't even begin to fathom the pain flashing across his face.

"No matter how large the city seems," he answered, "No matter how many places pop up- this rumor put me out of my job, and I'm afraid it's permanent. He threatened as much."

It was pure cruelty, and it was hard not to feel some kind of rage. Who could do this to someone, especially someone you claimed to love?

Her mind was close to wandering back to her neatly locked away memories once more, and each time, it took more effort to snap out of it again.
"And now you can't play?"

"Not as long as I can't disprove it. Noone will hire a-"
He interrupted himself before he said it out loud. Catherine almost shivered, just before a realization finally settled in.

"If you married," she managed to squeeze out, her voice quivering, "Then it would be different."

Theo smiled at her sadly.

Esther's plan had been close to genius after all, leaving Catherine with a feeling as if she'd just bit into a lemon.

"I wish I could help you," she whispered, "But I don't think I can. I'm sorry."

She couldn't do all wrong and twisted again. If she did, she was afraid she wouldn't be able to live with it.

Theo shook his head again, his smile more genuine this time.

"It speaks for you," Theo stated, "That even now, you think of others before yourself."

Catherine wondered if she was blushing or ghostly white.
If only he knew. How selfish she truly was. It's what survival demanded. And her every action proved her right.

Theo noticed her silence, and now reached out for her hand himself.

"I won't ask you to tell me what happened to make you so scared to marry," he said softly, "It took me long enough to show my cards."

Beside herself, she chuckled, holding onto his hand like her life depended on it.

"Let me just say," he added, "That you wouldn't have to be. I know what it might mean to you, but it wouldn't be... regular. Hell, we wouldn't even have to live together."

She had too many and no words to explain at the same time.
"I know," she simply said, "But I-"

Catherine closed her eyes, pictures flashing across her inner eye involuntarily.

"I understand. But you need to get away from him," Theo urged, "As soon as possible, before it's too late. Don't make the same mistake I did."

She opened her mouth, ready to defend herself. It wasn't like his situation at all. Once more, there was too much to say and too little air to breathe. She was offended, and felt awfully silly about it.

Of course, one could assume there were feelings involved. In her opinion, it was much worse.
It was her life.

So to her dismay, she couldn't disagree with Theo fully. It would be childish anyways.

He watched her expression change, and thankfully also decided to keep silent, his thoughts flashing by without ever seeing the light of day. It was uncomfortable, to think about the way he saw their... relationship.

That was the shame about keeping secrets. There was nothing intelligent to reply, or anything that remotely made sense.

And without that, it was hard to disagree on the plan at all.
"I'll think about it," she resolved to say, "I can't promise more than that."

"And that's enough. If not, we'll find another way," he promised, "We will help you, and evade the worst."

Sometimes, Catherine felt like the worst had already happened. Alastor was already haunting her every waking thought. His words, his face, his entire presence, really.
"Just promise me this, Catherine," he added, "Don't let him pull you further in. Stick to getting away, and don't let him convince you otherwise."

Knowing what she did know, his sternness finally made sense.

Maybe it had been Alastor's plan all along. To be so involved, so present in her very being, that truly getting away was impossible.

But she couldn't say that without proving Theo right, even though he was so wrong.

"I won't," she promised, "I want to get out."

Although this had been the whole reason she'd called her friends here, and schemed, and planned- all of a sudden, it felt like a big, great ruse. As if she was pretending with them, and maybe even herself. It was conflicting, to feel like you were telling the truth, and yet couldn't be quite sure.

She wanted to tell herself that the only reason she questioned herself was because Alastor had already dug in his claws so deep, he made her believe that no matter what, she would fail.

That she couldn't outsmart him. That she couldn't outrun him.

That had to be it, right?

As she took a steadying breath, her mouth tasted of dust and lies.

Chapter Text

trigger warning: physical abuse

September 1931.

It was a beautiful thing, that despite, or maybe because of the mess Catherine had found herself in, made her depend, hold onto people she called her friends.

She could've done without frequenting this bar, she thought as more and more people flooded this place, making her feel like it was hard to hear her own voice. Especially since somewhere in the crowd, a big band was playing.

It wasn't all bad, though; more people meant less leniency with alcohol, making it easier to refuse choking down bad, watered down whiskey.

She smiled at Theo, who was very busy and didn't even look at her currently.

Their talk had given her a sense of warmth, even though the topic had been so very sad.

Now, he was walking back and forth quickly, making sure all the guests were satisfied. In a sense, she could relate; sometimes on stage, she felt she was looking around the exact same way.

Esther touched her arm, and she almost jumped in surprise.

She really had to work on being less easily startled. What had once helped her greatly was now reduced to an annoying, embarassing habit.

Esther leaned closer, wanting to avoid straining her voice too much. Still, it was a hard feat to overpower the trumpet.

"Did you think about it yet," Esther asked, "The plan. You keep avoiding it."

Catherine bit her lip, knowing she couldn't even deny it.
In her defense, she hardly had any time for her own thoughts. Alastor had always made sure she was occupied with something, but lately it seemed like there was an event he needed her to attend every other day. Sometimes, she was afraid he'd figured them out, which is why he kept her on a tighter leash, but it just seemed so unlikely, looking at this place down some alley.

Either way, she was anything but feeling comfortable about it. Maybe he was sensing something, and that would just complicate things, considering she hadn't yet made her mind up about her friend's suggestion. Especially since she could be sure that if he knew, it made her less likely to go along with it, for whatever reason.

It was difficult- she didn't even know if it was her heart or her head fighting against the plan. She had many reasons to avoid marriage, yet there was something else gnawing on her.

She didn't have the time or the ressources to act irrational, yet here she was.

Well, she had to move forward somehow, without raising any suspicion. She would figure it out. Maybe she would even go along, if she was desperate enough.

Catherine took a deep breath before looking at Esther as nonchalantly and least worrying as she could.

"I'm taking my time," she finally replied, "Considering it is a life-long choice, it seems proper."

Esther looked at her in disbelief.
"How do you do that? Why do you keep doing that?"

"What," Catherine demanded, feeling more attacked than was probably necessary.

"Words come out of your mouth, yet it's like you said nothing," Esther answered, wide-eyed, something between annoyed and almost nervous, "Or if you do, it never seems to mean what it should."

Catherine's heart stopped, realizing there was a good reason to feel attacked.
Or rather, exposed.

Esther had just described the exact same issue she had with Alastor. The same frustration. Maybe fear, even. What could you trust, if nothing meant what it was supposed to?

She opened her mouth and wanted to disagree, to defend herself, to at least say something, but the comparison hit her so deeply, her voice ceased to exist.

Esther touched her hand softly.
"You don't have to go through with it," she said calmly, yet still a bit unsure. "Just talk to me, tell me what's on your mind- we just wanna help."

Catherine was afraid her smile came out hideous.

What could she say to something like that? It was caring, and concerned, and all she could think of was that she was starting to sound like Alastor. It should be an even bigger reason to try and run away- if only it didn't include the only thing she ran away from in the first place.

But that, she couldn't tell Esther. She couldn't tell anybody. Not even God.

"Do you want to stay? Is that it, you changed your mind," Esther asked.

"It's not that simple. I-"
She stood up so fast that dizziness overtook her so she had to catch herself on the back of the chair.

She waved Esther down before she could stand up, too.

"I need a moment," Catherine said, her voice shaking, with no air to elaborate.

Before Esther could reply or hold her back, Catherine dove into the crowd, pushing through as much as she could.

All these people so close to her body, pressing on her skin, felt just as tight and heavy as her chest.

Sometimes she wondered if she would ever be able to breathe again.

Even the silence and current emptiness of the bathroom didn't seem to do the trick.
She was so tired of this.

It didn't help that the sinks had a mirror, and even the walls reflected her image what felt like thousandfold.

She stared back at it, wondering if maybe, she was turning into a statue after all. That's why she struggled to breathe, and was turning so unfeeling. It wasn't Alastor. That was the reason.

Catherine took a step forward, spraying water into her flushed face.

She was being silly. It was time to return to reality, even though it seemed just as much like a fantasy, a dream as the myth told to her now so long ago.

Not a dream. A nightmare.

No more, she told herself silently, staring back at her reflection as she grabbed the sides of the sink.

No more games.

If it was her fate to never be truly free, she could at least bring herself into a situation where she knew the person with all the power would never harm her. And after all that happened, she knew Theo would never do that. It was mutually benefitial, and there was no fine print. It was safer, so she had to get over her fear, no matter how uncomfortable.

As for Alastor- it made sense that she picked up things he did. After all, he could do as he pleased, and that was something Catherine was inherently envious of. That he could go anywhere, and be liked, admired, no matter his intentions. Not that anyone knew, really.

But she would not betray herself. And becoming like him, she feared, would do that exactly. All the more reason to get away.

Because no matter how hard things got, what life threw at her- she had things she believed in. She would never allow herself to become as slippery, as calculated, as uncaring.

To become like him meant to always put yourself first, and survival aside, she would never let her heart grow as cold.
She looked back up at herself, to find some light and resolve in her own eyes.

It was then she realized she wasn't alone anymore.

In the corner of the mirror, she spotted a familiar face. It was then her heart picked up in pace. Then she turned, the sink burrowing into her back her only lifeline.

Before a word was spoken, she realized she was in danger.

"Mr. Fitch," she blurted out, trying to sound chipper, "I think you got the wrong room."

Mr. Fitch slammed the door behind him before stumbling against it.

The only door out.

He was drunk. She could see as much. The hatred in his eyes spoke louder than the only word he said.
"Whore."

She wanted to back up further as he staggered towards her. She couldn't.

She hoped someone would need to freshen up too. Noone did.

"Are you quite alright," she asked, hoping she wouldn't come to regret it.

It has been awhile since she'd talked an aggressive man down, and she'd never been good at it.

Come to think of it- considering how freely she spoke, or rather insulted Alastor, she could count herself lucky in some sense.

But now wasn't the time to draw ugly comparisons.

"You walk around all fancy," he slurred, "But I know what you are."

"Mr. Fitch, I'm sure you have good reasons to be angry," Catherine replied quickly, "But I'm sure we can talk about it over-"

She was interrupted by the harsh way he grabbed her arm and pulled her closer.

His breath smelled rancid, sour, and of all the alcohol he seemed to have gotten his hands on.

"You dared to insult me when you're so far beneath me," he huffed. She wanted to interrupt him, tell him that this had been almost two years ago- apologize, even. Anything to get out before it was too late. But he just kept on talking. "And now that you're some rich man's toy, you think you're better than me. Someone oughta remind you that a whore stays a whore."

Once again, before she could react in any way, his fist connected with her face.

The force was enough to push her closer to the sink, as if she was morphing into it.

Strangely, she felt the pain of her back digging into the sink sooner than the impact of the punch. Then, her ears started ringing, and she didn't know whether it had physical or mental reasons.

Not again, she thought before she was grabbed once more, this time by the throat.

Strangely, the lack of air seemed to clear her head for mere moments, of which she wasted precious seconds thinking how strange it was that he still felt so much rage for a near stranger when she'd hardly spared a thought for him.

Maybe she should've felt guilt over it after all.

The rest she spent trying to search her body for something to defend herself with, a hat pin, anything- because right now, she couldn't remember.

For a moment, they locked eyes, and to her horror, she realized he understood what she was trying to do.

He grabbed her harder, sending her flying against the wall, shattering it loudly.

But she didn't even grasp that it might save her. Suddenly, all she could feel, sense, see, even taste, was blood. Her own blood, running down her hand, hurt in an attempt to catch herself. Still, she landed on the floor, horrid pictures re-emerging over and over again.

She lost and gained sanity all at the same time as she remembered his face. His horrid, hateful face. Once loved, then lost, and never missed. Innocence shattered, just like the mirrored wall. Her soul.

Not again. Not again. Not again.

Mr. Fitch was now above her, but she hardly noticed.
Her lip throbbed, accompanied by a hot pain that reminded her of the fact she would burn in hell for eternity.

She couldn't die now. Eternity was long enough. She needed more time to make everything right. She wasn't a whore anymore. She wasn't a wife.

Just a woman. That wanted to survive.

Catherine heard herself sob as she robbed over the floor ever so slowly, scrambling around for something, anything before Mr. Fitch would grab her again.

Her hand got a hold of a larger piece of glass, burying deep into her skin.

More blood. Another horrid reminder.

Her mind readjusted itself, falling back into a catatonic state, knowing only one thing.

Mr. Fitch pulled her back towards him, his hands once again on her throat.

Leaving his chest open. His stomach, too.

Men only new how to dish out violence, to their wives. Their children. Apparently, strangers.

But not how to receive it.

Other than her. She knew. She knew what she was doing, and self-hatred flooded her bloodstream.

All of a sudden, Mr. Fitch was pulled upwards.

Theo's broad shoulders came into view as he pulled Mr. Fitch with just one hand, and punched him square in the face with the other.
It knocked him out immediately.

Even though she knew it was Theo, her friend, she scurried away as he got closer.

He was still a man, and she was still scared.

Of men or herself was a question she didn't feel equipped to answer.

"Dear Lord, Catherine, are you alright," he asked, the panic not matching his determined violence seconds before.

Her breath escaped in small, panicked intervalls, and her voice sounded even smaller.
"I think so."

"What happened," Theo urged, but Catherine could only shrug, unable to form a coherent sentence without confessing horrible, horrible thoughts.

Theo's gaze softened, offering her a hand to stand up she didn't take. Instead, she got up herself, groaning as she only now felt the throbbing, burning all over her face, her body.

It was for the better. She didn't want to be touched right now.

Theo's face was a mask of worry, yet he didn't comment on her decision, thankfully.

He stayed close, ready to catch her if she stumbled, and ignoring passed out Mr. Fitch in the corner.

A surge of gratitude overcame her she couldn't voice.
It didn't matter. The volume of the bar was enough to keep her in her mute state, even though the band had since stopped playing.

People were flooding the entrance of the bathroom, staring, mumbling.

Theo pushed them out of the way gruffly while telling them to mind their own business. It had medium success.

She stared at the ground, dizzy from all that had happened, one hand still hidden behind her back, curled into a fist.

Catherine didn't know how much time was passing inbetween the little interactions she had enough mind to notice. Her head was still filled with pictures, his face, her sins.

Theo sat her down on a bar stool before he disappeared for who knows how long, someone handed her some ice in a rag to cool the back of her head, Theo returned and disappeared again, instead, Esther showed up, sputtering worried, motherly remarks and questions Catherine didn't answer while rubbing her back. Catherine wanted to tell her to stop, but just kept staring into emptiness. Sometime after that, police showed up, talking to Theo, attempting to talk to her with little success, and sometime longer after that, policemen pulled Mr. Fitch out of the bathroom, who was yelling something or other about his innocence, and her being a whore.

She was afraid this state would last forever this time, that leaving her previous work hadn't done anything to save her from it.

Then, the entrance door opened again, and she snapped out of it in an instant. Or at least it felt like that.

She turned to Esther, and almost grabbed her before she snarled, "What is he doing here?"

Esther's eyes widened as she noticed Catherine's panic and disdain.

"Theo told me to call the police, nothing else, and I panicked-"
"So you called him? I gave you that number to reach me, just in case- do you have any idea how bad this is? You know that I just told you I-"

"I'm sorry," Esther shot back, less guilt on her face than Catherine deemed appropiate, "I didn't know how you were, if you were kidnapped, or murdered, and I thought it would be better to have someone around that the police respects."

That shut her up. Right. They were all lower class, little respected. It made sense. Still, it was hard not to feel some kind of anger.

"If I ever go missing," she told Esther, a sudden calmness gripping at her, "Please let him be the last person you call. Chances are, he would be involved."

Esther's face contorted in horror, and hers probably did, too.

She had no idea why she just said that. A spur of the moment, some silly delusion- she couldn't explain.
Not that she got to, anyways. Esther patted her shoulder, still looking alarmed.

"I'll be close by," she promised before disappearing in the crowd.

Catherine tried to give her some kind of smile, and failed horribly. Furthermore, it left her lips as soon as Alastor came back into her view.

The crowd was parting for him, naturally.

She stopped breathing again as Alastor came to a stop in front of her.

Her shock didn't come from his apperance alone, or the fact that his hands immediately slid up her arms, coming close to touching her face and deciding otherwise, or that she didn't truly mind. She wasn't even taken aback by the fact that for the first time ever, he was dressed casually. Just an almost loose shirt, pants, no tie, anything. Although strangely jarring, it wasn't what shocked her.

It was the fact that he looked truly, genuinely worried. And something about that made it hard to look away.

She couldn't have been wrong again. About his unfeeling nature. The cold heart. Anything she had to tell herself to go through with the plan.

He looked down for just a moment, a small, sad smile forming on his face as his hand slid down her right arm, bringing forward the still-clenched fist.

The knuckles were white, providing a stark contrast to the blood slowly trickling down her hand.

His expression remained unchanged as he turned her hand upward without putting any pressure on it.

His voice was the softest she'd ever heard.

"You can let go of that now. Nothing more will harm you tonight. I promise."

For a second, she thought it was quite a strange way to phrase it, but she was still distracted by his utter softness.
Slowly, she opened her hand, revealing the sharp piece of mirror she'd held onto for dear life. That noone had noticed but him.

Understanding flashed through his eyes, and something else she couldn't quite explain.

Not that she had any mind to spare. Panic overtook her, realizing Alastor knew exactly what she'd planned to do. Her lungs burned, desperately lacking air.

He reached out, removing the piece of mirror and strangely, putting it into his pocket before reaching into the other, presenting her with a hankerchief.

She shook her head.
"It'll be all bloody."

Alastor chuckled.
"I don't care."

"What about appearances," she tried to joke weakly, "I can't be at fault for muddling that."

He cocked his head, and suddenly, she almost felt the need to smile back at him.

She was a weak, weak girl.

"Sweetheart," he said, "Sometimes, there are things that are more important."

She looked up at him with a mixture of warm surprise and utter disbelief that bordered on fear.

Alastor held her gaze, his own changing slowly as he dropped his previous, sweeter expression.

"Who did this," he pressed, the coldness back in his eyes no smile never quite covered up. She should've been glad, and yet she wasn't.

"It doesn't matter," she argued, before she was once again rudely interrupted by policemen pushing Mr. Fitch back into view, still sputtering around, for some reason.

She watched Alastor tense, now a more dangerous smile appearing on his face. Or maybe, it just seemed dangerous to her. It's not like anybody ever understood her fear of him in any way.

"I want this man thrown in jail," he demanded, "Or it will have dire consequences."

The policemen muttered in agreement. It was strange to watch. Maybe they knew him, or maybe he just seemed important. But the fact that it was so easy for him to talk to the law like that, without facing any consequences, and rather be met with approval while her and her friends would've not been taken seriously, or even worse- been met with consequences themselves- it left a bitter taste.

She swallowed it down, something that Mr. Fitch was apparently still too drunk to do.

"She had it coming," he spat at Alastor before turning to her, "Whore."

With some kind of strange foresight, she caught his arm, and as she did, felt that he had been about to pounce.

Her heart stopped, feeling the pull towards Mr. Fitch lessen.

Alastor stared back at her, almost breathless.

And she realized that her silly little fears, her nervousness around him had never been as apparent, as daunting as now.

She was faced with yet another man with violent thoughts. Only now, they weren't directed towards her, though she didn't know if that made it any better.

To look at him felt almost like a mirror to what she'd been through before, and it sent shivers down her spine.

Catherine remembered what she'd said to Esther before he'd arrived.

"No," she mumbled, surprised at the calmness in her voice, "It isn't worth it."

Always the hypocrite.

Alastor watched her intently, and like witchcraft, his expression changed back to something less scary almost immediately.

Maybe she'd just imagined. At least that's what she wanted to believe.

"Of course," he smiled, offering her a hand,
"This has been quite enough tragedy for one day. Let's get you out of here, and cleaned up. You look a mess, dear Catherine."

There were so many reasonable reactions to his words.

She could've sneered at his insulting remark, or thanked him, although it would've been out of character, at least according to him, or asked questions so any of this would finally make sense.

Instead, she took his hand without complaint. And for a moment, she wanted to be pulled closer, and breathe in his promise, the feigned safety.

She didn't, luckily.

Blood on his neatly ironed shirt would look all wrong.
At least that was what she desperately tried to tell herself.

Chapter Text

Whatever comfort Alastor had posed as, it was gone in an instant, and they were bickering the entire drive.

Well, it had been close to nice while it lasted.

At least it had one positive effect: it was very difficult to stay in her previous, dissociative and scared state.

If only it didn't make the splitting headache she'd developed worse. And it did.

"No," she repeated once again, and the way he laughed at it made her seethe in rage.

Catherine hadn't just gotten out of a dangerous situation like this, be thrown around against her will to now sit here and be told what to do.

"I cannot accept that, and you know it," he replied, and while sounding casual, his voice was unusually pressing.

She almost smiled, knowing that at least, she was able to rile him up him, too. At least a little.

"I won't go with you," she stated, "You can't make me."

His hand covered his mouth for a mere moment, probably hiding another arrogant smile behind it.
"That sounds rather villainous. You should know I have your wellbeing in mind, or not?"

She wanted to laugh, but the seriousness in his eyes prevented her from doing it. Catherine looked away, swallowing harshly.

"I think it's a little too late for that," she settled on answering.

"Exactly," he said, "Which is why I cannot let you out of my sight."

Her heart sank, some inexplicable sense of panic overcoming her. She was shaken. Badly. This night had been too eventful in every sense, and the last thing she needed was to keep being confronted with this version of him that didn't make any sense to her.

That presented a good chance she would forget all about her previous escape plans within a heartbeat.

But that, she couldn't tell him. So her defense stayed firm, albeit paper-thin.

"You can't make me," she repeated, "Unless of course, you're finally inclined to use one if those other two favors."

She wanted to smirk, because she did feel some sense of pride to have backed him into a corner- that was until she felt his eyes burn into her, so much so she didn't dare to look at him.

"I worry for your wellbeing," he mumbled, dangerously low, "I try to give you some sense of safety, and you thank me by trying to haggle me?"

Her mouth went dry. She just wanted to go home, away from everything that had happened. To avoid mirrors and other eyes because she knew she looked horrid. She wanted to get away from him, before she came to regret it. Because no matter his persuasiveness, she didn't believe he had it in him to genuinely care, or worry.

No matter that he did a fine job making it seem that way. And she didn't want him to. Or even worse, maybe that was exactly what she wanted- noone had ever cared for her, she'd always been on her own.

At least if it stayed that way, nothing could surprise her. Violence, she could manage. Straying from her beliefs- that she couldn't.

"Fine," he spat, his voice suddenly cold and very much serious as Catherine felt the seat under her move as he leaned back. "As a matter of fact, I don't have to use another favor. You are at my back and call for professional purposes, and your current condition puts a damper on any current engagements I could happen to plan. It is only logical I seek to keep you close, if to counter any damage done, or prevent more."

She bit her lip, wanting to be angry, only to realize she couldn't. If anything, she was disappointed. With him or herself she couldn't say.

For once, he'd been close to truthful, at least in the sense that his words weren't all riddles. He'd been concerned, feeling- and now, it was all gone again, without Catherine having achieved anything she wanted.

At least his old self wasn't quite as daunting.

"I understand," she managed to say, "You need to protect your assets."

Quite out of character, he didn't say anything in reply. Quickly, she looked over, only to see his face turned away, his fist clenched and draped along the window sill.
She'd been wrong. This was worse.

Catherine decided to keep quiet as well, trying not to hyperventilate, or ask too many questions that aren't really important.

Maybe old habits wouldn't betray her twice.

The rest of the car ride was uneventful, which gave Catherine more than enough time to concentrate on her headache again.

Mr. Fitch had hit her harder than it had felt like, it seemed. She dreaded to look in a mirror.

As they came to a stop, Alastor tipped the driver generously before stepping out and offering her a hand with a smile on his face. It was hard not to be taken aback by the sudden switch in mood; if she didn't know any better, and hadn't seen it before on a smaller scale, she would've believed she'd imagined his anger. Even now, she felt some uncertainty over what she'd seen.

His hands were soft, and upon realizing it, she let go immediately.

She cleared her throat, and he kept silent all the same. Slowly, it was starting to unsettle her.

It reminded her of her mother. Well, on her better days, she had to admit, but still.

She'd had enough reminders of the past for today. All the more reason not to think about nights hiding silently in rooms, or her mother not speaking until she'd apologized for something Catherine hadn't felt at fault for.

The door was opened, and since she didn't know what to say to Alastor's utter silence, she just followed him sheepishly.

Soon, she found herself in the large main room of his house, a proper salon, akin to the ones ladies enjoyed their tea in the past.

It was quite beautiful, adorned with a piano, a grammophone, and really everything you needed for a nice get-together.

A shame, that she couldn't comment on any of it- after all, she'd seen it before. Not at night, but that was an issue she wasn't willing to touch on.

Before she could think of anything else to start some kind of conversation, she looked around and realized he'd left her standing.

Catherine sighed. Her hand wandered back to her ring finger, but she she stopped herself before falling into her usual motion.

It was for the better. She didn't want to rip open the deep cut any further. Bloody his handkerchief further. Not he was there to witness it.

She sighed again, looking around before she settled to lean against the very pretty table, hoping she wouldn't dirty it as she looked out the windows, the entire room behind her reflecting in them.

Which is why she noticed Alastor come down the curved stairs with a bag she didn't recognize before he had a chance to startle her.

It was comforting to know that mirrored surfaces also had their advantages.

For a moment, and as he was coming closer, it seemed like they caught each other's gaze in the window. It had to be imagination, yet her heart fluttered anyways.

As he came into view, he took a look at the window, and looked right back to her.

He'd clearly noticed her advantageous position, and commented it with a smirk. But still, he said nothing, and simply put the bag, that she now noticed looked strangely old and worn, down next to her.

She was gonna go mad.

"Are you mad at me," she blurted out against her will as soon as they made eye contact.

She came to regret it immediately as she watched his expression light up at the fact that once again, he had the upper hand.

Catherine wanted to scream, thrash, do something to get rid of this feeling of... entanglement.

No matter how high she rose, he would always know. Be close by, to take her down a notch. But now, he didn't even have to. She was beaten, close to broken down, probably still shivering and to reuse his phrase, 'looking a mess'.

On second thought, she didn't want to scream. She wanted to cry.

She watched him close in on her, angling his head sideways.
"Now, why would you think that?"

A dangerous question. He probably wanted her to expose herself, to sink even lower. She wanted to react angrily, yet the gnawing feeling of his prior silence didn't leave her.

"I don't know," she said, and almost grimaced at her own words that sounded so very clearly like a lie.

He chuckled. Of course he did.

Then, without a warning, his hand reached out to touch her face.

Her first instinct was to jerk away, but for some reason, her body didn't let her. She'd grown accustomed to his touch, yet the intimacy in the way he lifted up her chin to face him was different in every sense.

She stared at him like a deer in headlights, unable to move.

"You know that's not true," he replied softly, scanning her face thoroughly, "Do you think it necessary to lie to me still?"

"What are you doing," she asked, embarassed at the slight horror in her voice, simply not answering his question.

His mouth twitched before turning into yet another smile.

"Helping you, of course," he replied casually before reaching in the bag he'd brought. To search around, his hand had to leave her face, and for a split moment, she felt cold.

It also gave her enough clarity to finally shoot back, so at least there was that.

"If you think I'll apologize to you," she stated, "You're wrong. It was totally acceptable to stand my ground, and  regarding your feelings- I swore myself that I-"

"Will never cater to the fragile ego of men again," he interrupted her, sounding almost bored, "I am aware."

"So you are mad at me," she concluded before she could stop herself.

He laughed, but didn't sound joyful at all.

Before he ever answered, he calmly put some substance on a piece of cotton, and before long, his fingers framed her chin again.

"I simply cannot wrap my head around it," he murmured, "Why you should care if you angered me, if your opinion of me is clearly irrepably horrid?"

Her lips parted, ready to answer even if she had no idea what she would say, only to be interrupted by a sharp pain on her cheekbone.

His eyes twinkled in amusement, knowing full well he could've warned her beforehand. She glared back at him, but was aware she probably didn't look scary at all.

"I don't know what you mean. All I think, alluded to, were only things you admitted to first. It isn't kindness that drives you. You're protecting your investments, you said so yourself."

"Only that I didn't," he simply said, before taking a fresh piece of cotton and dabbing it on a fresh wound, only this time, on her lips.

Even if she wanted to, it would be hard to answer him in this moment. It was very clever.

This conversation, her mind was going in circles, going back and forth between fear, anger, disbelief and the fact that he was indeed caring for her.

She didn't know what to think anymore. Maybe, she even wished she didn't have to think at all. Be empty, far away for just a little while more.

His hands wandered now, touching the back of her head, searching. It took her awhile to realize he was checking for blood.

And it took a lot of restraint to not lean into it, not let the sensation of fingers running through her hair for the first time in forever, feeling the pleasant shiver run down her neck, take a hold of her.

Maybe she'd hit her head harder than she realized. Clearly, something was very wrong with her.

He looked at his fingertips, deducing that she was in fact not bleeding before opening a small tin. Without making further eye contact, he spoke up again.

"You speak of fragility," he said, his voice low, and only then looking back at her, angling her chin to face him directly once more. "And refuse to look at yourself."
"What?"

She couldn't drown out his touch that was too gentle for comfort. At least until she felt his grip tighten for such a small moment, she was sure she must've imagined it.

"I've done nothing but uplift you, yet you refuse to give me the benefit of the doubt in any situation, even if it's one I spend only with your wellbeing in mind," he told her, "You focus on the favors as something to be scared, spiteful of, as if it isn't the only small thing I've ever asked of you, without any regard for my reputation or livelihood. You pity yourself over it, as if you turned a blind eye to the lowest of the low, as if you don't remember what it feels like."

Her eyes widened, and she couldn't decide if he still seemed neutral or upset.

"All this, and you thank me with contempt and mistrust, and I am at a loss," he continued, his thumb wandering over her cheek dangerous and slow. "So tell me, sweetheart: Is this how it is to be? That I have to keep working around your ill opinion, all while I try my very hardest to get you where you want to be?"

Now, she was at a loss, too.

Without skipping a beat, his other hand reached to the tin, which she now realized held some kind of salve as he gently worked it into the cut on her forehead.

His calmness, his ongoing care all while they were having an argument confused her horribly. He should've lashed out in some way by now- she knew how to work with that. But he continued just the same, never raising his voice, never raising a hand. Almost making it seem like she had truly hurt his feelings, something she'd never thought possible.

Her heart beat faster all the same, and she wondered how many reminders of the past she could take before she would simply cease to exist.

In her helplessness, in her fear of being hurt, she reacted in the only way she had known. Still knew.

"What do you want me to do," she asked breathlessly, only then realizing how small, and stupid she sounded.

Alastor shook his head, chuckling.
"No," he asserted, "You tell me what you want me to do. Use your words for demands rather than complaints for once, and tell me what you need of me to change this impossible status quo."

Catherine felt like she'd forgotten every word she'd ever learned, and hated herself for it.

It didn't help that right after his speech, his thumb wandered over to her lips to receive the same treatment as her forehead.

Her lips parted before she could think, and for a moment, she felt like she was on fire as nerves came to life she didn't know existed. Shouldn't know existed.

The only think she knew for certain was that he was too close and not close enough at the same time, and no amount of guilt or repentance would make that feeling go away.

A very crooked breath escaped her lips as his eyes wandered from her lips up to meet her own.

And for the first time in a long time, they wavered. All of a sudden, his usual utter confidence was replaced with something she'd only seen once, the first time they met, in one of Dirk's horrid rooms.

Uncertainty.

Her eyelids fluttered just as dangerously as her heart, and the emptiness she experienced in that moment, other than the one she'd had at work, or earlier tonight, this complete thoughtlessness horrified her just as much as it would've probably delighted others.

Still, she did nothing to prevent herself from looking down at his mouth, telling herself it was to guess his mood better.

She felt like she, or him, were moving closer, but maybe the space between them just depleted, or she once again imagined it. She only knew that the small space that was left, felt too heavy to bear.

She felt his breath on her face, his lingering touch, and strangely, she thought of her mother, felt the pain of being hit with a cane right on the fingerbones, being told it is never proper to stare, feeling the sting for hours afterwards.

Of course, her mother would make her way into an utterly empty head.

It gave her the pain, the clarity she needed to finally speak up.

"I want you to leave Mr. Fitch be," she managed to whisper, "Let the law deal with him. I know you want to see him punished, but I want to forget this."

"You don't want to see him punished at all," Alastor wondered, "How selfless of you."

The dripping irony was enough to make her feel put off for at least a moment. Without thinking, she grabbed his arm with her still-intact hand.

"I mean it," she said, and made the mistake to look at him again, realizing she had pulled him closer.

She swallowed harshly, letting go immediately.

Only now did he have the courtesy to step away at least a bit, before she could wish her mother was here to make her suffer the consequences of her misbehavior, but not before shooting her another look that confused her.

It was almost searching. What he was looking for, or what he found, she didn't want to think about.

She thought of Orpheus, Pygmalion, and all the parts of those stories he'd left out, that seemed meaningless to him, and what that meant.

Then, she realized that was something even worse to ponder over.

So in a way, he saved her by speaking up again. Not that she was glad for long. There was no way she could forget what had just happened, what she'd just felt, what she'd just wanted to break down over. Where had her anger gone? Where had her newfound confidence gone?

There was something unshakeable in the air, something that disturbed her deeply.

Church was only two days away. Confession was only two days away.

She couldn't even tell if he was as shaken as her. Maybe, it was for the better.

Alastor changed the subject, not deeming her demand with agreement or a promise- so much so for his speech earlier.
His mouth twitched, his expression unreadable before he just slid into yet another smile.

It was eerie. How quickly he could switch.

"I should see you to your room. It's quite late," he said, "I'm sure you have some freshening up to do. Or praying."

She almost flinched, whether it was because of his disdain of religion or the fact that he had assumed correctly, she couldn't tell.

"I might," she settled on answering, "Service is still two days away, after all."

"I know," he chuckled, and something about it sent shivers down her spine. Hopefully, it was just residue of all the frightening feelings and thoughts from before.

She slid down the table, only now realizing she was still hurting.

He reached out to steady her, and she was once again faced with the fact that he was acting so horribly caring. Or just was caring. She didn't know anything anymore.

His hand slid down her left arm, catching her hand in a soft, yet firm grip. He turned it over, exposing the soft flesh of her palm, without any regard for the blood still tainting her skin.

"What," she asked nervously.

His thumb stroked over her ring finger, and annoyingly, her heart started beating outside her chest once more. Only for different reasons this time around.

He hummed, almost seeming surprised.
"Strange," he muttered, "That's a perfectly normal finger."

He was onto her. Oh God.

She pulled away, clearing her throat awkwardly, close to laughing like a mad person.

He was never above touching her, sometimes even absent-mindedly, but tonight was simply too much for her to take. If only she could admit it without admitting thoughts and feelings that were even worse.

"I really am quite tired," she emphasized, earning a raised brow.

"Just answer me one last question," he suggested, "Truthfully, if you may."

She wanted to sink into the floor. She wanted to confess everything, and mutter so many Hail Mary's, she would drop dead.

She gestured him to ask away, not able to speak with such a dry mouth.

"When you pray," he wondered, "What is it that you're praying for?"

Her knees went jittery in gratitude that his question was entirely different from what she had feared.

Apparently, she didn't hide her gratefulness well, and Alastor looked at her puzzled, yet curious.

She took a shaky breath, trying to regain composure, with medium success. While this question was better than the one she'd anticipated, it was still not entirely comfortable to answer. Not with his gaze glued to her so utterly interested.

And after all that had happened, giving him intimate details about herself seemed like the perfect way to get herself into more trouble.

For some reason, she replied anyway.

"Just what everyone should pray for," she said, not able to shake the memory of Alastor touching her lip, his face, this night, and all the horrible, horrible blood tainting her past, present, and possibly future. Who was to say? "Forgiveness."

Chapter Text

tw: graphic violence!

The afternoon sun, while still burning mercilessly, put everything around in a quite beautiful, golden light. Alastor leaned back on his chair, watching people talk, laugh and gossip, eat their vaguely french pastries as he pretended to listen to Mimzy moan about her woes.

After she'd been put in her place by Catherine so brilliantly, she'd grown quite clingy. Ususally, he didn't try to encourage it, but since he was free and he did harbor some fondness for her still, he made an exception.

Besides, Catherine would need time to recover- no matter the insights gained last night, he still had to be careful not to take it too far, and possibly make her shy away further.

Anything but that. He had her almost where he wanted her, after some consideration.

He was not the type to change a perfectly viable plan rashly, yet the oppurtunities revealed were too sweet to pass on.

There was still some things to make sure of, but his mind was already made up.

Losing wasn't his style, after all.

He turned his attention back to Mimzy, who tried to look bored, but was very clearly dying to bombard him with silly questions.

"So... this girl," Mimzy said, pretending not to remember Catherine's name which he didn't grace with a correction, "I assume she's still around?"

"She didn't fall of the face of the earth yet," Alastor replied, "As far as my involvement in her career goes, that is still present, if that's what you really wanted to know."

He wasnt used to Mimzy trying to hide her silly, slow nature, and in some way, it irked him as much as it should amuse him.

Mimzy pulled a piece out of the pastry in front of her, chewing as if deep in thought.

At least she gave up very quickly.
"I just don't understand," she stated, her mouth in a forced pout, "Why waste your time like this?"

He smiled at her brilliantly. It was almost adorable, how little she knew.
"Who says I am wasting my time?"

Mimzy's brows rose, and for some reason, she looked almost pitying.

Now, his curiosity was sparked. Maybe this would be fun after all. She had a hard time looking at him as she spoke up again, which could only mean she would say something delightfully stupid.

A reminder what he'd enjoyed about her presence in the first place. It wasn't her fault that he'd started to pursue higher forms of amusement.

"To tell the truth," she said, eyes wandering, "She sings alright, she's pretty- but that'll fade. What do you get from this? After all this time, too- what's left to use so much of your time on it?"

Alastor narrowed his eyes.
"What is left to use? Whatever do you mean?"

Mimzy looked at him in confusion, as if her statement was not only something to consider normal, but something sensible to say.

"Well, it has been close to two years," she replied, which wasn't remotely true, "I figured at this point, you'd grow tired of her."

Alastor's swayed his head to one side, then the other. He had a feeling where she was going with this line of logic, yet was morbidly curious to see it play out.

Admittedly, a part of him was ready to lash out, seethe, but he kept it to himself, neatly.

"Tired of her? I said I would help her rise, and I continue to do so. How could I be bored?"

As much as he wasn't bored, he sometimes felt himself grow impatient. Yet the oppurtunities revealed... at this point it felt like a coin flip, as to how he would continue.

On the other hand, it wasn't. He'd seen correctly, he was sure. He just wanted to prove it. He needed her to prove him right. To betray her own morals. To fall for it.

Whatever Mimzy tried to allude to, she didn't know half of it.

He smiled as she continued to speak, a little uncertain, and clearly nervous.

Her hands dropped as she now feigned, or actually felt, disbelief.

"In all the time I've known you," Mimzy sighed, "I've never seen you... obsess over a girl so much. Anyone, even. What is it about her that you can't get elsewhere? Don't tell me you lack options."

'Obsess' was quite the harsh word, he thought. Especially considering Mimzy fully believed Catherine's and his relationship was something carnal, something physical.
Naturally, she was wrong.

He had to think of last night, even though he wasn't sure he wanted to. It was almost, but not quite enough, to question himself.

There was a physical aspect to contemplate; and as much as he wasn't deterred by it than other fellows, he had to admit that it had felt different to Catherine's plump attempt at seduction now so long ago.

No, it had been something else, certainly; subtle, missed in the blink of an eye. And he had to admit, the way she reacted to his touch, leaned into it with those guilty eyes, opening like a budding flower, ready to burst into full bloom- it was a taste of power he wasn't used to.

And this taste, it was very, very sweet.

He would know what to do with this sensation as soon as he finished gathering his intel.

There was no reason to act because of it now; if she felt but a fleeting, physical infatuation, it might amuse him, but not enough to change carefully considered plans.

If it proved to be something else- something deeper, something devastating- then, and only then would he allow himself to have some fun with it.

Just the image of not only staging the downfall of a rising star, but twist it into a tragic love story, with all the hurt and betrayal anybody could ever ask for- transcendent.

He imagined Catherine shy, breathing heavily, the expression in her big doe eyes changing from bliss to horror, and for a moment, he was afraid to be wrong in his assumptions.

He didn't want to miss this for the world. No matter if his tight schedule allowed him to or not.

In response to Mimzy, he could only smile.

He lifted the mug in front of him up to his lips, taking the last sip of coffee before he spoke.

"Dear Mimzy," he chuckled, "I think you're doing your sex a disservice. You can't possibly think physical charm is the only thing you're capable of."

Mimzy frowned, several pictures clearly flashing across her eyes.
"You can't mean-"

"Romance," he questioned, "Don't be silly. Just know that I am perfectly satisfied as I am, and that you don't have to worry about me being taken advantage of. What a strange thought."

It was hard to tell if Mimzy seemed jealous, insulted, or simply downright confused.

"Well," she spat, "I'm sure you now what you're doing."

Alastor smiled at her warmly, patting her hand before standing up.
"Now, I must be off. I have important business to attend to, if you don't mind."

Mimzy furrowed her brows, not bothering to get up at well.
"It's saturday noon."

"Well, this meeting cannot be postponed," Alastor argued, nodding towards her cordially, "I am touched by your concern. Please believe that I know what I'm doing."

Mimzy shrugged, returning her attention to the pastry in front of her. She might be mad at him now, but she would be all smiles and hugs in due time. She could never stay mad at him. Now, it made the goodbye quicker. And after all, there was alot of ground to cover from here to the designated meeting place. At least, it proved to be an almost serene route.

He hadn't necessarily lied to Mimzy, and simply not mentioned the fact that today, he travelled on foot. He avoided public transit at all costs, so walking proved to be the simplest solution. That way, he would arrive just as the sun set, which was perfect. In truth, it wasn't as far as one would've assumed, and he welcomed the distraction of a nice walk.

The city was already buzzing in anticipation of a saturday night, and sometimes, you could hear the faint sounds of instruments being warmed up, already filling the air with their sounds.

When people walked past him, or made eye contact, he smiled at them, as courtesy demanded. Yet it was more absent-minded than usual, since his thoughts were fully occupied.

As much as he didn't feel a need to question himself, it was only logical to turn over every sentence, every expression, just so he could make sure he wasn't on the wrong path.

There had been something, he was sure of that. He just needed more proof. Which he would aquire sooner than later.

First of all, he had to keep his cool. Last night had been a close call, in a sense. Catherine wasn't supposed to be terrified of him yet, and he knew he hadn't overplayed his anger as well as he usually did.

For the first time in a long time, he'd acted before thinking. Coming after her, having been ready to rip Mr. Fitch's head off as soon as he saw him.

Even worse, he hadn't been prepared for the conversation following. Catherine's clear draw to him had certainly saved him, but he wasn't keen on depending on sheer luck. A little gamble now and again was fine, if it was controlled in any way. Tipped in his favor.

It wouldn't happen again. He would make sure of it. After today, things would return to normal, and after making an informed decision, he would change his plans accordingly. To enhance the game. Nothing more.

And as the golden streaks of light slowly turned orange, then red, he decided that today did not count.

Of course acting out of feeling rather than calculated thoughts felt exciting. It was only natural. It would not become usual.

The cemetery was almost empty, there were only a few, scattered people left, clearly aching to get home.

No one wanted to be alone at a cemetery at night, no matter how spiritual, sensible, superstitious, or outright silly people's beliefs were.

Although there was no reason for Alastor to feel the same way; he suspected that aside from ghouls and ghosts, he might be the scariest thing present on these grounds. But he might've been giving himself too much credit.

His step was relaxed, chipper even, as he made his way to the other side. He almost felt the need to whistle, for the irony of it, but he was still trying to keep a low profile.

He grabbed his keychain, immediately being met with the strange, old-fashioned feel of the key he'd been looking for.

It was a hassle, and a big eyesore, but it wasn't like there were many proper places supporting his kind of labor.

He looked up the crypt in front of him before one last look to the left, then to the right, before disappearing into the it.

People's superstition's were a powerful tool. Who in their right mind would break into a final resting place to discover stairs leading downwards?

He heard the heavy, pathetic breathing, shuffling before he could see the culprit.

The first thing he noticed was the utter mess. It was a shame, usually he tried to be orderly.

But as he'd discovered, rash decisions required one to be lacking in at least one department.

In this specific case, it was worth it. Although it hurt to see his collection in utter disarray. As much fun people fighting back was, it was deeply exasperating seeing them stumble over precious memorabilia, even when it was still in shadows.

Unbothered by the muffled screams, Alastor lit a gas lamp that was just bright enough to illuminate the room.

To spare himself from looking at the state of the room, he walked up to the culprit of all these horrid noises instead, removing the gag more gently than he needed to.

He shook his head.
"Now, Mr. Fitch, cease the crying. That's no way for a gentleman to behave."

There was snot running down his face, tears, matching the trickling blood drying on his temple.

You would think you would get used to the horrid smell that oozed from people in fear.
One never quite did.

People that were afraid they would die were messy, shaking, ugly.

Just as Mr. Fitch was now, sputtering pleads and other nonsense in an incoherent manner.

Alastor clicked his tongue, disappointed.

"Use your words, kind sir," he mused, "I don't understand a single word you say. And I know for a fact that you're sobered up enough to do so."

It seemed that Mr. Fitch was too terrified to appreciate his quip.

"Please let me go," he cried, "I don't know what I did to upset you, but I have a wife and kids at home, I-"

Alastor grabbed his throat tightly before he could finish, pulling him forward as much as his restraints allowed.

"You should've thought of that before you got drunk and attacked an innocent woman in a bathroom. I'm afraid you don't deserve any grace," he spat, and felt Mr. Fitch's ragged breath right on his face.

Alastor let go, stuck between feeling exhilerated and disgusted.

"Innocent," Mr. Fitch muttered, but thought better of it before he could continue. It was fortunate, really; just because this plan had been short notice didn't mean Alastor didn't plan to get at least some enjoyment out of it.

The fun would be all spoiled if Mr. Fitch made him deliver the killing blow out of anger, thus ending the fun prematurely.

Alastor caught a glimpse of Mr. Fitch's shin sticking out of his pant leg, and decided that was enough satisfaction for now.

With one swift motion, he kicked against it, the satisfying noise almost drowned out by Mr. Fitch's bubbling scream.

He wanted to pull the whole bone out and watch as he writhed and cried. Instead, he turned away towards one of the shelves propped up against the wall, contemplating his next move as he rolled up his sleeves.

"Not so cocky now, are we," Alastor said over his shoulder as he grabbed an axe, considering the weight in his hands.

"Please," Mr. Fitch whimpered, "I'll apologize to Cathy. I'll do anything, just let me go, please-"

Mr. Fitch couldn't finish talking before he broke down into another crying fit.

As Alastor polished the axe blade, he wondered if Catherine would plead with him that way. If she would cry, or scream.

Then he thought about how she'd held onto that mirror piece, how feverishly, how ferociously. Ready to kill. It was a side to her he hadn't anticipated.
It was exciting.

Those empty, determined eyes had shook him right to his core. Maybe, pleading and crying would've been good enough for him before.

But now- now, he wanted the challenge. To see her fight him nail and teeth. If she realized what was happening before it was too late.

The thought alone sent a pleasant shiver down his spine.

He turned back around to Mr. Fitch, still polishing his axe.
Maybe he should've been glad. Without Mr. Fitch's stupidity, he might've gone on without seeing this impressive display of survival.

But just looking at this pathetic sack of flesh once more, the image of him hurting her- why, it was enough to make his blood boil all over again.

"Now, now," Alastor replied calmly, "I've made a promise. Catherine doesn't want to see you punished. And unfortunately for me, I feel inclined to cater to her every whim."

Mr. Fitch's eyes flung open comically large, and a shaky breath of relief escaped him.
"Oh, thank God. Thank you, I won't-"

Alastor's laughter interrupted him, and it seemed like Mr. Fitch stopped breathing for a moment.

"It's funny," he cackled, "What a silly request, don't you think? It would never cross my mind to punish you."

As Alastor closed in, Mr. Fitch's eyes looked as if they were close to popping out of their sockets.

"I have no interest in punishing others, it is not my place," Alastor explained, speaking quicker in excitement, "But I will teach you a lesson, if you don't mind."

And just like that, Mr. Fitch was back to incoherent pleading. Fresh blood trickled down his leg, and the pungent smell of urine filled the air.

"I'll put it simply, since you don't seem very attentive right now," Alastor spoke casually, letting the weapon fall into his dominant hand like an afterthought as he finally dropped his cheery attitude. "You do not hit, or violate, even touch a woman. Especially if she's not yours to touch. And she isn't. You made a grave mistake. Understood?"

Mr. Fitch nodded over and over again even more fluids dripping down his face.
One could almost feel pity.

But today was not the day for sentimentality.

Alastor's smiled widely, probably brighter than the lamp behind him.
"That is great to hear. I am glad we could get to an agreement."

Mr. Fitch didn't get to take a breath of relief, as the first blow hit him right in the middle of the chest.

It was a hassle to pull out again, and quite the exhausting task as he had to put his foot against the chair to keep Mr. Fitch from falling over. Alastor almost cursed, but stopped himself before he could, even though it was difficult not to as he watched blood splash right onto his good, expensive shoes.

A little class, that he expected of himself.

"You have to excuse my rashness," Alastor told him, "You see, I have an important engagement to attend tomorrow morning, so I cannot spare our little lesson much time. Ironically, I am needed at church, would you believe it?"

Mr. Fitch could gag on his blood now, not his screams, causing him to make strange, gurgling sounds.

The remedy was another blow, powerful, yet not powerful enough to divorce his head entirely from his body.

"Well, 'needed' might be presumptious," he kept explaining while not expecting any reaction, "I invited myself."

Alastor chuckled before he let go of the axe, causing it to slump down with what was left of poor Mr. Fitch.

Well, from what he could tell, his family would be better off without him, he was sure. He knew.

He sighed, looking at his hands, the blood soaking into his shirt that had unfortunately slid down his arms in the process, causing intricate, red patterns to seep into the fabric, to then look back at Mr. Fitch.

"Look at this mess," he said, now to no one in particular, "Look at what mess you've caused me to make."

If he was speaking to himself, to poor, dead Mr. Fitch, or someone else entirely, he couldn't tell.

Chapter Text

Alastor was always ready to give Catherine some grace regarding her past, or rather her choices, yet it was hard to accept that really anyone sat through a service and enjoyed it.

Especially when one considered the horrible speech impediment the priest was riddled with, among other things.

And that wasn't even touching on the utter double standards he'd found out about during his research.

The only good thing about it was certainly that a distinct voice was easier to mimic.

Therefore, service was harder to endure than he'd originally assumed. He wasn't a morally upright person by any means, he wasn't delusional enough to think so, yet the self-righteousness spewed while being adorned with forgiveness and lies about kindness was enough to make him roll his eyes.

Why was Catherine so hard to manipulate, if she could blindly believe, bat her eyes at a merciless church?

Maybe it would've made his experience nicer, if he'd gotten the chance to watch her. Unfortunately, he had to stay hidden for his plan to work. Which meant he got to hear everything, but not see her. And he really wanted to.

Her eyes turned up towards the priest, repenting, open- all the things he seemed to fail at.

He smiled to himself thinking that it was only poetic justice that had brought him here now, to fullfill his silly, little wish.
That she bowed to him, in fear, in bliss, in hope just once.
With the added effect that finally, he would be proven right or wrong.

Of course he wanted to be right about her affliction, though being wrong would make this whole ordeal easier.

In truth, he couldn't quite grasp why he was so tempted to change his plans. Something about her just made it hard not to risk a thing or two.

Or a whole plan that would work just perfectly. If only he could stick to it. If only ripping out a flower in her prime was still enough.

His head perked up as he listened in more closely now, confirming that service was coming to an end.

He rose, moving closer towards the door in anticipation. Well, maybe it was a bit of impatience, too.

Especially since he knew that until all the thanks were said, and other people had taken confession, a lot of time would pass.

He couldn't wait.

Unlike himself, he leaned against the wall, and as time went on, started listening in on the people pouring out their hearts.

Maybe, pretended anonymity was all it took. At least for some people.

He caught his heart beating in excitement as he heard an all-too familiar voice.

Alastor stood straighter now, but still relaxed against the wall.

A face appeared in the doorframe, worried, nervous.
Even whispering, his voice sounded ridiculous. How one could push their tongue forward so much, he didn't know. He only knew that it was difficult to keep up, he came to learn.

"I'm not sure about this," the priest whispered, "I-"

Alastor put his hand on his shoulder harder than he'd anticipated.

"I know," he said, his voice equally lowered, and almost pitying, "Unfortunately, as I understand, you don't want your little secret to be known, do you now?"

The priest looked up at him like a lost puppy. Turned out, the church- as anticipated- was really bad at cleaning up after themselves. A few weeks of research, and blackmail basically sprung right into his face.

A woman the priest was attached to, living with him like a wife. To walk around, pretending to be better, to follow all the rules, to judge others accordingly- only to be just as faint of heart as the rest. The nerve.

Well, maybe there was a lesson to be learned.

It was pitiful. But then, very fortunate. When he'd started to dig, he hadn't even known how desperately he needed certain information.

He couldn't get enough of it. Things just kept working out in his favor.

And while he knew he shouldn't keep counting on it- it was very hard not to feel overtly confident about plan changes.
Only now, it was all in Catherine's hands. Which should be annoying, maybe even uncomfortable, yet all he felt was this utterly senseless surge of excitement.

Alastor dismissed the panicked priest, his eyes glued to the door leading into the confessional.

Through the grid encased in the walls, he could see a familiar silhouette in the shadows.
He licked his lips.

This was about to be fun.

He sat down as silently as possible as the door was closed, pretending as if there hadn't been a switch at all.

How interesting it was, that he could hear her breathing so very clearly. It almost made him hold his own, but that would've been ridiculous.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned," Catherine said, solemnly, sternly, and he had to close his eyes in bliss.

It was sweeter than he'd anticipated. Just for a moment, he needed to bask in it. The desperation. The innocence of her voice. A moment too long, it seemed, as she spoke up again, her voice now laced with uncertainty.
"Hello?"

"Apologies," he replied, almost too quickly, his tongue falling into this still unfamiliar placement, on it even more unfamiliar words. "May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust in His mercy."

It was hard to keep a straight face. How could she ever begin to confess her sins, when she didn't know half of them? How much blood already tainted her delicate hands, thanks to him?

His pretense was followed by a long silence. Through the small framed grid, he could see she was still sitting rather than kneeling, and he wondered if somehow, she knew something was wrong, without knowing how to place it.

"Are you comfortable," he asked. He couldn't help himself, and as he heard the wood creak under her weight shifting, he had to take a deep breath.

So humble. It was to die for. And yet, he was met with a feeling akin to jealousy.

He worked, slaved for her trust, and was met with a smile, if he was lucky. This stranger she thought he was, this supposed man of God, did nothing but outright lie, and not even very well, and suddenly, she was devotion through and through.

This man of God, using and lying to a woman apparently deserved more trust than Alastor did. Well, he wasn't all honest either, but Catherine never showed him any of the grace she did this silly, silly man.

He would change that. He just had to be patient a while longer.

Catherine spoke up again.
"I fear I have lost my way, father. And I don't know how to repent."

Alastor imitated the humming sound the priest seemed to like so much quite perfectly.

"I don't know anything anymore," Catherine continued, voice shaking deliciously, "How to escape these thoughts that haunt me."

He leaned forward without meaning to, full of anticipation.
Why had he ever send someone after her? A spy wasn't half as useful, as entertaining as this.
"Tell me of those thoughts."

"I cannot," she whispered, "I'm not sure I can speak them aloud."

Now, he couldn't hold back his smile. He was so close. He was almost sure he knew what would come next.

"The Lord is good, and his mercy endures forever," Alastor said, and it was almost disgusting enough to wipe the smile off his face. "But only if you have the courage to confess."

This was so horribly simple. He was aghast, that he spent most of his life to perfect the art of manipulation, always had a trick up his sleeve, only to realize that nothing worked better than the rage of a supposed God to get people to say what you wanted them to.
Ridiculous.

The only remedy he had was the sweetness of Catherine's desperate, defeated sigh. And her shaky breath. And of course, the shuffling of her knees on the floor, fidgeting even now.

Sometimes, it felt like every sound she made was music to his ears. If he felt any less confident, it would've worried him how much he enjoyed it. How she never quite left him, even if she wasn't around.

He would worry about it later, when he had the time. Then, he could also figure out how slow he had to end her, so he could get the sweetest sounds out of it.

She inhaled, and exhaled, trying to reassure herself, probably.

"Thoughts of sin," she murmured, "Thoughts of violence. Bitterness. And-"

She trailed off, and he almost rolled his eyes. When would she get to the good part?

"Thoughts of desire," she finally breathed, "I shouldn't have, yet I cannot help it, and- I cannot stop. It consumes me. It scares me."

Would a priest react in shock? Especially one like this, the one he was posing as? He wasn't sure, so he simply kept calm, which proved to be quite difficult.

He had been right. It was hard not to be euphoric.

His head felt emptier than usual, and as he tried to choke down his excitement that his plan change was more than viable, searching for something silly a priest would respond.

Alastor's tone was serious and barely his own as he spoke up again.
"I understand you did not act on these feelings?"

"Well, no," Catherine replied, her voice back to uncertainty, and alluringly tense, as if he was forgetting something. "We are not married."

He almost laughed. Her determination, her faith- it was adorable. Not married. Simply adorable.

For a moment, he wanted to reveal himself, just to watch her face fall. To whom she had just confessed, the horror in her eyes proving that she was talking about those feelings for none other than him, even though he didn't really need proof, as there was no doubt anyways.

To watch her demeanor change within the blink of an eye- as much as he envied this institution being able to tame her so easily, her venom, her claws were incomparable to experience.

Instead, he kept up his role diligently. One might say, faithfully.

"There is hope for you, my child," Alastor said, "God gave you strength to endure. Not to act on it. To find a solution. Pray over it."

He had to admit, this role was growing on him. Not the way of speaking, but one had to sacrifice some confort some time or another.

"No, you don't understand," Catherine shot back, now sounding panicked, "I don't know how much longer I can keep this up. I cannot get away."

"Why not," he pried, trying hard to keep his voice in place, to not be consumed by this nagging feeling.

For a moment, she didn't reply, and he feared he'd been to forward, that she was taken aback. That she could be onto his ruse.

As if he had to doubt his skills. If anything, it would be a sign of madness if she assumed he'd replaced her priest without any proof.

Not that she would find any proof.
Not that she could tell anyone.
Not that anyone would ever believe her.

As she found her voice again, he realized she'd been simply grasping for words.

"There is this deal, and he is- it's quite complicated," she stuttered, "The point is that I cannot leave. Even if I wanted to."

"So you do want to stay," he asked, now almost lightheaded in excitement.

Everything was falling into place exactly the way he wanted it. Her little gasp in feigned shock told him as much.

This wasn't a cleverly planned murder anymore. It was a tragedy of mythical proportions. A work of art, full of drama, heartbreak and corruption.

It was then he realized would never surpass what he was in the makes of creating. The thought alone made him shake in ecstasy.

"I don't know," she responded weakly, "Sometimes I feel like it won't make a difference."

"Why not? Because you feel too attached? Because of your heart?"

Another long silence was followed by a string of laughter that was positively unhinged as it slowly turned into soft, beautiful sobs.

It almost made him waver, and he didn't know why. Not on his plans; no matter what her reaction meant, he owed it to himself to go through with his plan change. To rise to the occasion, above his usual, now so seemingly boring engagements.

Alastor would make her fall. For a ruse, a pretense she would want to believe so badly, her fear of God would mean nothing to her anymore.

He would be sweet, and bitter, and open, to close the doors when she craved the truth most. Or the feel of skin upon skin, whatever it took.

He would wrap her so tightly around his finger, she would only realize she was choking when it was already too late, when she was blue in the face, too weak and tired to fight back.

Too much in love. Betrayed, all her delicate, sweet songs, and even sweeter sobs would be dedicated to him, and only him.

Her breath came in pained gasps, and once again, he had to close his eyes, to take it all in, only for them to fly open with something close to shock. Something that made him want to chase even more badly.

As if she wasn't handing him the perfect set up on a platter already, she went ahead and raised the stakes even higher, the challenge even more irresistable.

"No," she muttered, "Not my heart. My soul. And I am afraid I have sold it for meaningless gold and glamour. To him."

Another shaky breath followed, and he straightened at the sound of it. Only almost relished in it.

Even though her voice sounded stronger now, it was laced in pain and uncertainty.
"And this man, he who haunts me now, can do with me as he pleases- I am quite certain he is the devil."

Chapter Text

February 1932.

It was curious, how easy it was to succumb to a lack of morals. And how it was even easier to tell yourself that you were in the right for it, and completely justified when faced with something possibly threatening.

Catherine didn't particularly like herself most days, as she had a lot of things to feel guilty for, but the past few months made her realize that if she'd been kinder to herself, maybe the spiral she'd found herself in would go up, instead of steadily downwards.

It didn't matter. Now, it was too late. And for some reason, she still felt in the right.

Well, in many things but not her choice of clothing; the flimsy, silken scarf she'd chosen barely kept her throat warm, and provided less anonymity that she'd hoped for. She pulled it deeper into her face, cursing herself silently, hoping the early fog did a better job at concealing her.

Her mother had been right again. Vanity was a grave sin. And now, she was getting punished for the fact that after so much time in poverty, she enjoyed the finer things and fabrics in life.

Although, it was not the sin she was currently worried about.

Deep in the pocket of her coat, a strange key was weighing heavily. That wasn't hers to have, much less steal like she'd done.

It turned out that doors opened easier than she'd ever thought. Especially Alastor's, whose housekeeper let her in over and over again without even asking a single question.

She felt tempted to wonder what this woman thought about her, what she was to him, or if she simply didn't care, but she didn't have time to indulge in silliness like that. And she tried very hard not to, especially since she was aware that she could not trust herself anymore, when it came to him.

At first, it had felt odd, to just waltz into his house unannounced, when she knew he wasn't home. The first time she'd even hoped he was, right after her horrid confession a few months ago. Well, in hindsight it hadn't been all bad. She didn't have a chance to pour her heart out, or something similarly stupid. Besides, it had finally given her the courage she needed to do something. She was still surprised; usually, that priest wasn't the best at giving advice.

After not being denied entry for the first time, it became a habit. At first, she didn't know what she was looking for. Something to ease her worries, to snap her out of whatever was brewing inside her, to prove to herself that she was right about his nature. Maybe prove to her friends that she wasn't going insane. That something evil was going on inside this man.

That the fact that Mr. Fitch went missing shortly after the attack was no coincidence, or that he had simply finally left his family, as the people said. Even if it was horrid to think about what that might imply about other 'business relationships' Alastor might have, to make a man disappear into thin air like that.

And with Alastor gone so often lately, it wasn't even a challenge to go unnoticed.

She didn't know where exactly he was going, or why he was gone for extended periods of time, but it fed her suspicions tremendously. Especially since he'd been trying to make an effort, to be nicer- even leaving her a bouquet right around Valentine's Day- and that was enough to make her more uneasy than she already was.

Catherine pulled her coat tighter, trying to forget that sometimes, when she was stupid enough to miss him- which she only did because she'd grown accustomed to his presence, she was sure- she turned on the radio at specific times, just to hear his voice.

When despite all this pretented kindness, he didn't bother to show his face, or call, unless to inform her when he would come back, or some engagement he needed her to attend.

Maybe he was finally growing tired of her, and started to feel the need for some professional space. And she should be glad, if that was the case.

But it wasn't enough. This deep, unsettling feeling- she needed to prove that it wasn't imagined. Only then could she feel free of him again.

Like she wasn't his puppet, inclined to cater to his every whim.

And hopefully, protect what was left of her virtue in the process.

There were worse things to succumb to, after all. And while it didn't get easier to ignore the pull she felt, she tried even harder. Dove headfirst into her suspicions, until she was finally rewarded.

Maybe she would prove to her friends, to herself that she was crazy after all. But something about this key, even though she might already be grasping for straws, made her deeply wary.

At least it was something. And maybe enough to finally rid her of festering, horrid feelings, the image of his face so close to hers, the remembrance of his touch so deeply embedded in her mind.

Before she believed that his change in demeanor actually meant anything.

After all, the second copy, the one he didn't have on his keychain, had been hidden, glued to the top of a drawer filled with various fancy, clean weapons, that were questionable enough as they were.

Esther would say there were avid collectors out there, that she shouldn't worry.

So this time, for a while, really, she hadn't told her, or Theo, of her detours. She would, when she finally found something.

Catherine didn't have time to speak with them anyways, at least not today, as she knew that Alastor would come back sometime this afternoon. Time was of the essence, if she wanted to place the key back beforehand.

She smiled at someone absent-mindedly, even though she tried to go as unnoticed as possible. Anything else would have been rude.

It was almost as if she heard Alastor speak inside her head, making a coy remark about treating your fans well. She shook her head almost violently, shivers cascading down her spine.

He consumed her thoughts enough as it was.

In the distance, she could see her destination through thick fog and surprisingly busy streets.

She picked up her pace, before she could grow too paranoid and abandon this plan entirely.

Catherine pushed the door open, and was met with the sound of a melodic bell announcing her arrival.

The room smelled like coal and metal, and the image of blood flashed before her eyes, and she shivered, even though it was significantly warmer in here than outside.
Her hands shook slightly as she removed the scarf from her head and stepped up to the counter.

She wasn't doing anything obviously illegal. Only her own conscience was to blame for her nervousness.

Lately, she could do nothing but blame her conscience for a plethora of things.

The locksmith didn't seem to be of the talkative sort, and simply grunted a greeting.

Catherine swallowed, trying her best to smile at him, while Alastor forced himself back into her head again, telling her that she was a terrible actress.

Well, how bad could she really be? He hadn't found her out.
Yet.

She reached down into her coat pocket, grabbing the key and placing it on the counter as she tried to make her voice sound as firm as she could.

"I need a copy of this," she said, and almost sighed in relief over achieving something as simple as uttering a sentence.
Maybe she was going a little insane, after all.

The locksmith looked at the key, picked it up to assess it, and left it on the counter as he grabbed a list and a pencil.
She looked at his stained hands, making a mental note to wash her hands thorougly after this visit.
"Put your name down."

She grabbed the pen, avoiding the already-stained parts of it and wrote her name down.

For a moment, she considered to use a different name, but that would've been ridiculous.

She would not allow herself to be this paranoid.

"You can pay when I'm done," he said, pulling the sheet away as soon as she laid down the pen.
"Alright. I'll come by later today to-"
"No," the locksmith interrupted her, "Tomorrow."

She looked at him, unable to hide the sheer panic on her face.
"I need this copy done quickly. Can't you have it made by today?"

Luckily for her, the locksmith didn't seem to care one bit about her panicked state, and shook his head.
"No earlier than tomorrow, ma'am."

Her heart beat too fast, and she could feel her throat tighten.

This had been a bad idea. The longer she had to wait, the more likely it was that Alastor would find out that he'd been robbed- and then, probably who his housekeeper let in so frequently.

But the key had already disappeared in some shelf or another as soon as she looked up to ask if she could have it back.

Pressed, she thanked him and said her goodbyes, deciding that she shouldn't act any stranger in front of this man than she already did.

Catherine walked through the city as if in a haze, smiling when she needed to, just as Alastor taught her. She didn't know how long, how far she'd walked until she found herself in front of a familiar cafe, and as she stood there, she decided to try and soothe her panic with a late breakfast.

Unfortunately, it didn't help much; as delicious as the assortment of food in front of her was, she could hardly keep anything down. Her mind was a whirlwind of images, some recent, some long past. And every other moment, Alastor creeped his way into those feverish trains of thought, and despite knowing better, guilt began to gnaw at her.

He had been very kind, lately. Maybe she was paranoid, maybe she was seeing things that weren't there, all because she could not forget how his fingertips felt on the back of her head. Maybe she was the only evil one. Or even worse, resentful because his attention was clearly elsewhere.

She gripped her butterknife tightly before letting go, exhausted from her own mind.

She stared at the food, remembering her mother yell that she was to eat what was served and not a single crumb less, and how she went to bed nauseous, yet still hungry.

She remembered cutting up onions, and chicken so very fine, it was almost mush.

Just how he'd liked.

Only then could she snap out of her sorry state, wondering if she should let the food be packed up and drop it off at Esther's. She frowned, realizing Esther would probably not appreciate that kind of gesture only wealthy people could ever afford, and decided to leave the food, even though it hurt.

Catherine payed, tipped generously, and made her way to the kitchen to give compliments to the chef, since she knew him, only to be roped into a conversation slightly too long for comfort.

He asked some lighthearted question about the fact that she was alone today, and not with her 'usual' company, and she tried to comment on Alastor's absence as playfully as possible.

She was starting to sweat, just thinking about the key now stuck at the locksmith's.

After asking to use their telephone, which was something she learned you could simply do if you were important enough, and trying and failing to reach Esther to try to find some sense of normalcy, or at least justify her behavior to someone, she left, still feeling a little beside herself.

Without knowing how much time was passing, she walked through the city, trying to distract herself by looking at shops, windows, other people going about their lives.

She was trying very hard to distract herself, but couldn't shake an inevitable sense of doom.

The first time she looked up at the sky again, she realized the sun was already past its highest point. For some reason, she sighed in relief. The more time passed, the safer she felt. Stupid. As if it wasn't the other way around.

Maybe she wouldn't be found out. Maybe everything was going to be alright.

That quick sense of safety vanished almost instantly as she came to a halt in front of a row of newspapers, neatly stacked up on a shelf.

She didn't know why, but her eyes flew over the front page regardless. It was then her heart stopped in its tracks.

Catherine felt dizzy as she gave the newspaper boy some coins to pay, the paper almost crumbling under her shaking, sweaty hands before she sat down to open the pages that had caught her eye.

Horror was nothing to describe what took root inside her stomach, almost enough to make her throw up in the middle of this busy street.

A picture of Mr. Fitch, right next to the description of the state they pulled his body out of the Mississippi River.

Almost in two pieces, they wrote. Horribly decayed. A wonder he could be indentified.

And no leads as to who could've comitted such a horrible crime. Gangs, they theorized, considering the huge amount of gambling debt in Mr. Fitch's name.

Catherine read over it again and again, until her eyes turned misty with tears, the realization finally settling in.

She was hardly able to breathe as she crumpled up the newspaper and threw it in the nearest trashcan.

She couldn't look at it anymore. She couldn't think about how right she might've been after all, and how dangerous of a game she might be truly playing.

In a daze, she found her way home, close to forgetting about the whole key business at once, pacing around her apartment that felt all too fancy now, wishing she had picked up a nasty habit like smoking or drinking after all, to have anything to do, to relax and not let her panic completely consume her.

Instead, she grabbed her own telephone, trying to reach Theo this time around, hoping he'd already be at work.

She almost cried tears of joy after asking around and finally hearing Theo's familiar voice.

It was then she couldn't help it anymore, and broke into real tears.

"What's the matter," Theo asked, his concern even carrying over the phone.

"He's dead," Catherine replied, panicked, "Mr. Fitch was murdered, and I am doomed, if that means- it has to mean that-"

"Catherine, you need to calm down," Theo urged, "I've read it, too. For now, it doesn't mean anything. He likely owed money to the wrong people. It's not your fault."

"My fault," she wondered, realizing that Theo didn't jump to the same conclusions she did, and simply thought of the assault. "No, you don't understand. It's him. He's got to have something to do with this."
"Who?"

"Alastor," she breathed, almost choking on his name, "Theo, I know you haven't believed me that something's wrong, but now I know there is, I can feel it."

Theo sighed on the other end, his voice full of concern.

"You're shocked," Theo said calmly, "That's only natural. But don't jump to conclusions while your feelings are clouding your judgement. Those are heavy accusations, Catherine."

"It's true," she cried out, "Please believe me, we have to tell someone-"

"Calm down, please," Theo interrupted her, "We'll find a solution, I promise. I'm here for you. How about you swing by this evening? If it's still empty, we'll have all the time to look at this logically."

Catherine stared at the clock over her, realizing it was now well into the afternoon, and what that meant. Suddenly, a strange calmness overcame her.

If noone wanted to see the truth, she had to uncover it herself.

"No," she firmly said, "Thank you, but I've got to go."
"What are you planning- Catherine, don't do anything rash-"

She hung up before he could finish his sentence. If she had any capacity to feel bad, she would've.

She slipped back into her shoes, her coat quickly, making her way down the stairs even quicker still.

Of course, she had no plan, or any idea what she was doing. She only knew that Alastor should be home by now, and that she couldn't bear this panic a second longer.

Maybe it was more dangerous than she realized, but oh well. She didn't know whether she wanted to be proven right or wrong. She only knew that she needed to know, now.

As she flew down the stairs, she realized she had no plan whatsoever. If she could even confront him, choke out any word worth saying as soon as she saw his face and would inevitably think of his hands, his smile, his breath on her face again. Her pathetic confession months earlier, as she admitted on her knees to a priest of all people how easily she was tempted. But no more.

A grim expression slowly made its way onto her face.
There was still time to figure everything out on the way, she was sure.

And maybe, it would finally heal her of any lunacy, of any secretely harbored feeling.

One could only hope.

Chapter Text

On the way, Catherine's horror, fear, even her resolve, had transformed. The closer she got to Alastor, the angrier she felt.

The nerve he had to have, if he actually had to do something with Mr. Fitch's death.

To entrap her in some deal, while clearly being involved in shady, ruthless business, with even shadier, more ruthless people.

She knew her rage reeked of double standards, but she had no mind to think about that now. Her head was filled with horrific scenarios about just what kind of horror these 'favors' could entail.

He would find a way to snake around her desire not to hurt anyone. At least he could, if he wanted. He was slippery, and deceitful, and she had been right to mistrust him, and wrong to see any kind of redeemable qualities in him when he pretended to be oh-so-caring.

Still, she had no idea how she would go about questioning him, and if she was honest and ignored her anger for just a split moment, she was shaken in fear.

Not only because of the implications, or what could happen to her; no, deep down, she was afraid that she was right.

To chip this image he had, his charms, which he seemed to think didn't work on her at all.

Well, at least he was wrong sometimes.

Time passed strangely. On one hand, the way had felt like a lifetime, yet as she arrived, it felt like no time had passed at all.

She was breathless as she rung the doorbell.
For a moment, she feared his face appearing in the door would make her change her mind, leave her even more clueless than before.

Actually, the effect turned out to be quite the opposite. Unfortunately, instead of a changed mind, she found herself with an empty one.
And hoped she wouldn't regret it.

She gave him no time for a greeting, or any reaction at all before stepping up to him, around him right into his home, an accusatory finger pointed at him.

"How dare you," she spat, "What gives you the right to deceive me like this? To pull me into your horrid schemes?"

In his defense, he bore the look of someone genuinely confused.

"Sweetheart, I fear I am at a loss," Alastor replied, trying to get closer to her, causing her to scurry away in response. "Would you kindly catch me up about what exactly you're yelling at me for?"

The look she gave him was pure venom.
"I know what you did."

His eyes widened ever so slightly, and only a moment, but she knew then that she was onto something. Her heart beat faster in excitement, and somehow, that felt completely misplaced.

The next time he spoke, his voice had dropped significantly. The seriousness was almost enough to spook her out of further inquiry.

"I still have no idea what you're talking about," he mumbled, his voice low and waiting, "Indulge me. What is it that I've done?"

She took another step back on instinct, but didn't back down otherwise. She knew she couldn't.

"Mr. Fitch is dead," she said, her voice shaking, "And I know you had something to do with it."

He laughed right into her face, and for some reason, it sent shivers down her spine.

"Now, why would you think that," he chuckled before turning serious yet again.

As he closed in on her again, something about his demeanor left her frozen.

He towered over her as she tried to keep her gaze cold while she looked up at him.

Alastor reached out, fixing a strand of her hair, letting her know she likely looked utterly dissheveled.

"Do you have any idea what you're accusing me of," he asked softly, "And after all I've done for you, too."

She pried his hand out of her hair.
"I would have never agreed to any deal, had I known," she sneered, "And now that I know, I want nothing from you."

Catherine tried to take a step back, to walk away because his presence just got too overwhelming. Disgusting, at least that's what she wanted to believe.

She didn't get far. As soon as she turned her back to him just a bit, he had her wrist in an inescapable grip. Strangely, it didn't hurt at all. Some kind of invisible force just made it way too easy for him to hurl her right back towards him.

Making clear who got to decide where she went.

She knew she failed to hide her fear, and shockingly, it made him let go immediately in response.

As he let go, his fingertips sliding along her wrist, her hands, dangerously soft.

She was afraid she looked even more fearful now.
Alastor sighed deeply, his eyes penetrating and inescapable.

"As much as it hurts me to see your opinion of me hasn't improved," he said, "I still have to wonder how you could've possibly gotten to that conclusion. Especially after you made me promise not to punish him."

She knew that wasn't what she had demanded, but what he'd made out of it. She had pleaded with him not to hurt Mr. Fitch, and the word 'punishment' had never left her tongue. Yet now, in the heat of the moment, it slipped her mind.

"All you do is lie," she shot back, "You know this. I know this."

"That is your evidence," he chuckled, "An empty assumption. Interesting."

"Don't belittle me," she hissed.

He held up his hands in defense.
"I'm not trying to. I'm simply wondering if that is all. If you truly presume all these horrible things simply because you think I'm a liar, without any considerable reason."

Catherine was reminded of Theo. How he hadn't believed her. How he'd sounded as if he thought she'd lost her mind.
It left her with a seething rage as she realized she had nothing to respond. She was losing her footing.

"You're gone all the time," she replied weakly, "For days on end. You're hiding something, and with Mr. Fitch dead, it's likely you're involved in some kind of shady business."

Alastor laughed, again, and this time, she decided she had enough.

"Fine," she called out, "You have nothing to say?"
"I'm sorry sweetheart, I simply have no idea how to respond to your ridiculous conspiracies."

He was so demeaning. High and mighty.

"Alright," she replied, "I'm out of here."

"You cannot go," he stated, and his voice almost sounded panicked. Maybe she was imagining it.

Only now did she realize how far she'd backed into his living space, trying to keep her distance.

She felt he'd lured her right where to he wanted her.

"Yes I can," she said, trying to keep her composure, "This isn't business. I arrived here on my own accord, and now I will leave on my own accord. You cannot make me stay. Just be happy I don't report you to anybody. Yet."

It took all her courage to bolt past him.
She thought she moved quickly, yet he was right behind her, his step relaxed.

She could hardly breathe as she kept walking, trying not to let her intimidation show.

Catherine got to the door just fine, but as she reached for the doorknob and turned it, his arm appeared above her, pushing it closed again.

It reminded her of their first interaction, and as the image crossed her mind, she could hardly breathe.
He was too close. Way too close.

It was hard to let go of the thought to just lean into it, even though it was highly counterproductive in theory.

"I'd like to call in my second favor," he said, calm yet breathless, "Stay."

Her heart dropped. Still, she turned to face him, only to regret it.

"I know how you looked at him," she whispered without any good reason, "How angry you were."

"I know," he simply stated, "Let me explain. Stay."

His gaze was just as soft as his voice, yet there was something in it she didn't really understand.
Haunting. Waiting.

"It seems I don't have a choice," she answered unsteadily.
"Neither do I."

His arm slid down, and for a moment she thought he would grab her hand. If he planned to, he'd clearly changed his mind, letting his his arm fall back to his side as he motioned her to follow him.

And for the first time tonight, maybe ever, she did so without complaint.

To her, having a bar in your own house was the very picture of excess. Of course, she knew she was alone in this. Apparently, it was considered to be very fancy.

The fact that he stayed silent for so long unsettled her.
Alastor went behind the bar, grabbed a glass, and poured some kind of whiskey she didn't recognize, which probably meant that it was very expensive.

He shot her a look, accompanied by a raised brow.
For a moment, she hesitated. She was uncomfortable with the notion that now he had forced her hand with a favor, basically given her an ultimatum whether she decided to stay or leave, and what it meant.

She answered before she could think it through.
"Oh, why not."

He grabbed another glass, pouring, and sliding it towards her.

Catherine frowned.
"Don't you have ice?"

Suddenly, he was so casual again. He shook his head in disapproval.
"You don't waste a liquor like that to drink on the rocks."

Catherine shrugged, simply accepting her fate, taking a sip before she could change her mind.

It wasn't even half bad, she had to admit. It didn't burn, she didn't make a face, the beverage left a warm feeling in her throat.
Deceiving.

It left her so deep in thought, she hardly noticed Alastor appearing next to her.

She could barely surpress the need to flinch, and was almost proud that she'd managed it.

He motioned her to sit down, and didn't wait before he did just that. As she backed against the stool, not quite sitting down, she noticed just how different he looked to what she was used to.

He looked so tired. Slumped down on the chair, knees up, back curved, head down, no straight line in his body left.
Somehow, it made her uncomfortable. To see him like this. To wonder why she only noticed now. If he only let her notice now, to his advantage in some way.

Or that she was simply a selfish, ignorant girl. Maybe the truth was inbetween, but there was no way for her to ever tell.

So she just kept standing, not letting him out of her sight for one second.

He watched her right back, his expression unfamiliar, yet as unreadable as ever.

Catherine took another sip, for courage.
"Now that you made me stay, thanks to your failsave contract," she said as steadily as she could, "You owe me an explanation. So. Explain."

She couldn't tell if the twinkle in his eyes was amusement or something else entirely.
"Someone's impatient."

"As I should," she sneered, and this time it was accidental, "I'm here because you're forcing me."

Maybe she'd imagined the flinch going through his body. Maybe it was all an act.

She only knew that his voice did sound genuinely pained as he responded.
"Very well then. I would never dare to waste your time."

Her mouth went dry at his tone, causing them to pick up the glass at the same time and take a big gulp.

She was ready to complain for not sticking to his own word as he stood up yet again, pouring another round, but then she saw his hands shake.

He truly didn't want to tell her. He was nervous.

This time, he didn't go back to sit down next to her. Instead, he stood oppsite to her, on the other side of the bar, his fingers tapping along almost anxiously over the dark, shiny wood.

She watched him sigh, swallow, chuckle at his own uneasieness. What a strange sight. Without noticing, without wanting to, she leaned forward.

"You're right. I've been out of town quite often," he began, "And as much as I appreciate you missing me so much that you-"

She interrupted him, shooting him a look of pure venom.
"No."

He sighed again, looking down at his hands still in motion.
"Fine, you're not in a joking mood," he noted, "Neither am I, come to think of it. The 'shady business' you accuse me of, well. I'm afraid it's a ruse. If I am out of town, if I leave for longer periods of time, it is because I am taking care of my mother."

Catherine almost dropped her glass. Of all the things she'd imagined he'd say, she would've never guessed something like this.

His eyes narrowed.
"Does it seem so unlikely to you that I could care for someone, or what are you giving me that look for?"

She felt like she'd just got caught doing something bad.  She felt like a naughty child.

"No! I mean, I- I would've never guessed. Is she sick?"
Stumbling over her own words like that after being so accusatory was embarassing, to say the least.

He didn't comment on it, strangely. Everything about him was strange right now, if she was honest; his demeanor, his stance, even his voice was odd. Different.

And yet, so familiar. It didn't make sense.

"Not exactly," he replied, "One might say it's a condition. I'd say it's an undeserved, but sensible consequence."

He was speaking in riddles again, and the initial openness she'd felt radiating off of him was gone in an instant. It was hard not to sound frustrated.
"What does that mean?"

The look he gave her bordered on disgust.
"Are you asking because you still suspect I'm lying for fun, or because you take an interest in my life? Because let me tell you, sweetheart, this isn't exactly my favourite topic of conversation. Especially after you made it abundantly clear that you'd love to leave, and spew your empty accusations around some more."

There was nothing she could say that would sound right. And despite the voice inside her that was still screaming, reminding her of poor, dead Mr. Fitch, she'd lost the will to pry. To accuse.

To maybe act like a lunatic. Even though she still felt that she wasn't one.

His laugh was joyless, taking her silence as all the answer he needed.

"Why am I surprised," he wondered aloud, "Let me quicken this whole affair. You still think I am lying."
"I-"

He moved so quickly back towards her, it shut her right up. She could barely move as he got closer, his fingers unbuttoning his sleeves nimbly.

It was mortifying, that she had to actively try not to be mesmerized by the quick movement, the way his hands, his arms moved so quickly, so determined. Luckily, even though it was macabre to see it that way, the shock that went through her as he pushed his sleeves up his upper arm was enough to fully snap her out of it.

They bore horrid bruise marks, in the shape of small, delicate hands.

Catherine almost gasped, but realized how insensitive that might seem.

She reached out to touch his arm without thinking, her fingertips not gravitating towards the obvious bruises, but a small, circular scar.

And just like that, he whirled out of her reach, his sleeves back down before she could blink more than once.

He leaned on the bar, not as far away from her as it'd initially felt, looking as if he was breathing heavily.

Her mind was a whirlwind that was hard to tame. For now, she couldn't. Maybe she had to follow along just a little while longer.

"Why did she hurt you," she asked, and knew it to be genuine.

She took Alastors lack of protest as confirmation. This time, he simply answered. It was almost refreshing.

"It's not her fault," he protested, a vulnerability, a softness in his voice she'd never heard before. "She can't help it. Hell, she doesn't even know who I am most of the time."

"Her condition," Catherine repeated, "Does she think you're a stranger?"

Alastor did nothing but look pained.
"I'd rather not answer, if you permit me. I believe I am still being interrogated."

She chose to ignore the clear jab.

"And if you didnt spend so much time to take care of her," she concluded, "She'd have to go to an institution. Because of the fits."

Catherine had never seen him this uncomfortable. And as much as she wanted to empathize, she couldn't shake the feeling that it was all too good to be true, and she felt guilty about it.

Alastor, the saint. No morally dubious plans in sight, for just a moment, if you squinted, if you only took him in as he was before her.

A son, dearly holding onto his mother, slowly slipping into insanity.

And the last thing she wanted was to feel compassion for him. To see him just as he was.
Human. At the end of the day.

"You summed it up quite perfectly," he said, close to mocking, but changing his mind halfway through his words, "Is that explanation to your satisfaction?"

"On one hand, you didn't want to tell me this," she stated, "On the other, you made sure I would stay and listen. Why?"
"Social intricacies. You threatened me."
"You told me I had no actual proof, and that I was being unreasonable."

She watched his hand curl into a fist, his knuckles turn white, before he relaxed again, his hand sliding down the bar.

It should've scared her. From all that she'd known, all her life. Yet strangely, it didn't. Not if it were his hands. Which was all in all a very counterproductive feeling.

"Well, maybe I had a lapse in judgement," he admitted.
"You panicked."

He shot her a look, that was supposed to be annoyed, she guessed, but he just looked tired. And maybe, just a bit, panicked.

"You're set on utterly picking me apart, it seems," he commented sourly, "Why all that interest, and so sudden?"
"Doesn't it get tiring, to never outright reply to anything?"

A small, surprised smile wandered over his face, maybe acknowledging the horribly hidden double standard.
"With you? Never."

She crossed her arms.
"What 'lapse in judgement'? Why panic, if you're innocent?"

For the first time, at least as far as she knew, he combed a hand through his own hair, exhasperated.

"Dearest Catherine," he sighed, "Did you ever stop to consider that I, too, might not be entirely devoid of feeling? That I might like to feel appreciated, trusted by someone I spend so much time around, so much so that sometimes it feels we breathe the same air?"

He'd alluded to this before, yet it still hit her harder than she anticipated.

She wanted to tell him that she didn't get to breathe much when he was around, but knew better than that.

That she could hardly breathe now, as he spoke of them as a unit, as something that was inherently tied to each other.
But she would rather die than admit to those shameful thoughts in front of him.

Instead, she stared back at him as cockily as possible.
"Letting your guard down isn't only one person's job," she argued, "It should be gradual. Mutual. A two-sided exchange."

Alastor hummed, slowly seeming more like himself again. She didn't know what to make of it.

"I agree," he said, his eyes not leaving her one moment, "And I believe I just presented a perfectly good first step into your direction."

And just like that, they were back to the games. She hated herself, for being so easily fooled. For still feeling a bit foolish. For wanting to be an even bigger fool.

Her expression hardened, while trying to keep her voice as relaxed as possible.

"Well, you have me trapped here now," she tried to joke, "Ask as you please. Do as you please, before I decide to make a run for it, favor or not."

Her heart stopped for a moment as something flashed across his eyes. Something she wasn't familiar with, and couldn't place.
Something primal.

It should make her want to run. Instead, it straightened her spine, tensed her core, and made her knees touch. And she knew that he noticed.

But just as quickly this energy had manifested, it was gone just as quickly, and the strange glimmer in his eyes was replaced by regular curiosity and consideration.
He shook his head.

"No. If you ever open up to me, I don't want it to be by force," he explained, "I want it to be a choice. For it to feel deserved. Just for once."

A thousand questions popped up inside her head, the most pressing one of course being what had been his plan after all, if he wasn't even trying to get something out of this favor, other than proving his innocence. To force her to be here, just to let her off the hook easily.

It was as if he could read her mind, and even after this day, it felt eerie.

"Don't worry," he said, "Give me one moment to get something, then you can leave me here to revel in my waste of a favor."

He didn't give her time to answer before leaving her behind.
For a moment, she wondered if it was a test, to see if she truly had the guts to defy their deal.

And maybe, she should've. Her racing mind didn't seem to be slowing down anytime soon, and she wondered if that was how he always felt.

Trying to guess hidden intentions. To be a step ahead. Planning something you couldn't possibly know, and could only guess at. Just for the possibility to stay in control.

It was exhausting. Now even more than before. Now that she might've outplayed him, made him act before thinking for the first time.

If he was to be believed, that is.

As he came back down, he was holding a bundle packed in fine fabric, which he lay down in front of her.

This time, as he revealed what was inside, she couldn't hold back a gasp.

The object was familiar to her, on account of all her snooping. And she knew they were many more where they came from.

"It would ease my worries if you had this," he mumbled, angled right behind her so she could feel the little pockets of air carrying every word into her ear, right into her treachorous body.

"I don't want a gun," she managed to choke out.

Suddenly, his hands were on her upper arm, turning her towards him gently.

"Listen," he said, "Someone did come after Mr. Fitch. Who attacked you, which I'm sure you didn't forget. I underestimated the danger of being known, and admired, and what it could do to you when I'm not around."

She backed against the bar, shaking her head, trying to zone out the warmth of his palms against her skin.

"I won't take it," she retorted, "I can't-"
She couldn't finish that sentence until judgement day, she was afraid.

"I just want you to be able to defend yourself," he stated, his voice gaining a strange quality yet again, "In case someone where to come after you."

With much difficulty, she stared back at him, not budging on her resolve one bit.

His expression softened. It was so perfect, it almost seemed rehearsed.

"It would give me some peace of mind," he said, almost pleading. His hand reached for her face, and she didn't, couldn't want to stop him as he lifted her chin, his thumb caressing her cheek in a manner that seemed utterly misplaced and highly confusing. "Would you consider doing this for me, as a sign of good will between us?"

For a moment, she contemplated if she should strike another deal over this, and usually, she would feel horrible over these kinds of thoughts.

Apparently, guilt could dull over time. Not quite, but in this moment- just enough.

Maybe he was being truly vulnerable, maybe not. Maybe she would lose her way, and give into things she should never dare to think about.

The future was uncertain. But if she had a chance, to sway him now, to be unassuming, innocent, nothing to worry about, it would make it easier to prove to herself, to her friends, that her initial gut feeling hadn't betrayed her.

Because she was still certain he didn't tell the whole truth. That there was a darker part to be yet uncovered.

As much as pretty words made her heart flutter madly, they didn't betray her mind.
He'd taught her better.

And she was sure he was trying to divert her attention away by any means possible.

Which meant that she, too, had to give it her all, to divert his attention elsewhere, to leave him unassuming, so she could get close enough to uncover the truth. To prove it. To save her virtue.

It was risky. A gamble. That could make her lose it all.
Especially her virtue.

So despite, or because of her better judgement, she looked up at him, her eyes big, and scared, feigning to be barely able to make eye contact.

She nodded, allowing her self to lean into the hand against her cheek, her eyes fluttering close, as if she was fighting against it.

It was then she felt the need to pray. That she wouldn't lose herself in it.

From the moment she'd made the initial deal, she'd known that she was playing a dangerous game.
And now, she'd just raised the stakes. All or nothing.

Repentance or purgatory.

Chapter Text

As far as Catherine could tell, Esther's mother was healthy and well, which after everything she'd found out recently, soothed her in a strange way.

At least some people were spared of difficulties regarding mothers.

While she was happy for Esther, it was hard not to turn up her nose- or sneeze- because of the state her mother's living space was in.

Esther had warned her, yet still shot her an apologetic look as Catherine had to cave and finally sneeze before she disappeared right into it. Catherine wished she could've prevented the sneeze, considering that now, her eyes watered even more after the strong cloud of some kind of incense that was sharper than she was used to, and cigarette smoke had already done a number on her. She felt bad, and now, she couldn't even apologize to Esther as she didn't dare to follow, afraid she might get lost.

Instead, she turned to Theo, who looked entirely out of place in this cramped, small space, full of memoribilia and vaguely humanoid statues. The streaks of pink, blue and gold scattered all over the hallway washed all of them out, but as Theo stared at the floor, he looked downright uncomfortable.

"I don't know if I ought to feel safe or not," he commented, and Catherine didn't understand what he meant, and didn't dare to ask.

They came to a halt in front of a kind of altar she wasn't familiar with, also adorned with statues of vaguely womanly shaped figures she couldn't place, in front of those several pieces of fruit, glasses with various liquids inside, and even something that seemed to be smashed cake. Ironically, everything seemed to be quite fresh, which frankly, Catherine didn't expect, considering the utter disarray everything else seemed to be in.

Catherine almost chuckled, thinking that for the first time, she was glad for her previous line of work- otherwise, the perceived vulgarity of it all might have made her uncomfortable, and that would've been just rude.

She immediately shook her head, disappointed at her own thoughts, which seemed still very much rude. She'd been taught better.

"A woman of faith," Theo muttered, "Interesting."

Catherine frowned, once again reminded of her own mother, and as Esther appeared again, staring down at her wrists without meaning to.

Of course, Esther noticed, raising a questioning brow.
Well, she couldn't even blame Esther for suspecting she had lost her mind.

It was her turn to stare at the floor now, resisting the need to massage her ring finger.

She'd gotten awfully good at avoiding it.

Esther sighed, either choosing not to ask any questions or because she was still not entirely happy in this situation.
Catherine didn't know whether to apologize, or thank her again. All she knew that she was almost vibrating in anticipation, nervousness and something else she couldn't place entirely.

"She's alright with it," Esther told them, her lips pursing ever so subtly, "As long as we put everything back where it was."

Despite herself, Catherine's face lit up, souring Esther's expression further. Luckily, it was still also adorned with a mischevious glimmer in her friend's eyes.

"I wish I had never told you this," Esther said.

Sometimes, Catherine did, too. She remembered the conversation all too well, even though it had been so long ago.

After a particularly rough night at Dirk's, when Catherine hadn't been there long, Esther had tried telling funny stories to get her back on her feet. And while to a normal person, stories about your mother's hoarding problem weren't exactly funny, it had worked for them, and Catherine's tears had changed to ones of laughter.

Then, Catherine had made the mistake of letting her guard down, asking what Esther's mother thought of her line of work, which had gotten rid of the almost nice atmosphere immediately.

To this day, she wondered how Esther had stayed friends with her after that. To this day, she couldn't forget what Esther had said.

How do you think I was born?

She couldn't surpress a shudder as Esther and her shared a look, both thinking of the same conversation, both not willing to remind the other.

Before, they had been in the same place, holding each other up. Now, it felt like they both thought the other was looking down on them from time to time, while both refused to acknowledge it.

Well, one of them maybe more than the other. Every attempt Catherine had made at helping Esther with anything financially, she'd shot down. If it was pride or something else, she couldn't tell. She only knew that it had made Esther uncomfortable, and she'd stopped to ask.

Of course, there was still the underlying knowledge that haunted Catherine, which Esther never admitted to out loud.

That small, pitying look Esther gave her every time she talked about her suspicions.

Catherine shrugged, sighed, and followed Esther, settling on being thankful that despite her worry and disbelief, she still chose to help her friend.

Even though she, or Theo for that matter, believed her in the slightest.

It didn't matter. All that was left was to look forward, and hope.

The room Esther led them to was even more dusty than the hallway. But, surprisingly, way more organized.

With shelves lining the entire room, and her first impression, it was almost strange to notice labels all across the shelves.

"This is incredible," she breathed, not able to help herself. She immediately stepped forward, touching the rims of hundreds of newspapers stacked on top of one another.

Theo snorted, and immediately looked apologetic.

Maybe it discouraged her, but she didn't dare to pull out any of the newspapers yet. With shaky hands, she pulled out her old notebook, which she hadn't used in a long time. As she pulled out the pen, she had to remind herself to wash her hands well, in case she would get ink on them.

And she wasn't keen on getting found out. Which she would, if she wasn't careful.

Alastor saw everything. And only told her half of it, just to keep her on her toes.

But this time, it would be different. This time, she would outsmart him.

All assuming she would be able to find something. But something inside her was sure of that.

"So," Esther sighed, "What's the plan? Just find... anything incriminating?"

Catherine shook her head.
"We're looking for any article mentioning a murder in the last few years," she explained, "Specifically those related to organized crime. Or the entertainment industry."

All three of them tried to control their expressions, and all of them failed badly, while noone mentioned it.
"Well," Theo said, "Let's get to it, then."

Time was passing quite strangely, fast, and yet so slow.
She was grateful for Esther and Theo, not uttering a single complaint, as they switched between roles of reading, sorting, and putting back newspapers they didn't need.

They talked only as much as they needed to, and even though the room was fairly dim, Catherine could tell that by the time she could get to writing down notes, the sun had turned golden red, signifying the beginning of late afternoon.

It was then she started to scribble, first carefully, then slowly beginning to become frantic.

After a while, she thought she finally noticed a pattern. It felt like coming to life again, as she realized she'd held her breath for too long, and had gotten dizzy.

She looked around, newspapers spread out around her in circles, not helping her initial dizziness.

Esther and Theo stared at her, and it was only then she realized she had mumbled along the entire time.

Catherine swallowed down her embarassment, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Everything aligns," she said, "It all makes sense."

Her heart beat faster than she could admit to, as she lined up the dates she knew Alastor had been gone, and the articles they had highlighted.

Esther kneeled down next to her, reading along, her expression steadily getting more confused.

"That's what you've gathered," she wondered aloud, "What does that prove?"

Catherine wanted to snap at Esther, but could stop herself in time. She sighed, her chest feeling tight already.
She tried to explain as calmly as possible.

"The dates," she said, "They match. He is gone, and a few days later, these articles appear. Especially those talking about gang involvement."

Theo said down next to her, too. Suddenly, she felt Esther's hand weighing on her shoulder.

Her gaze darted back and forth between her two friends, as a sinking feeling settled in.

They didn't believe a single word. They were worried. They pitied her.

"Cathy," Esther said, pretending to be grounding and calm, "Are you sure you're alright?"

Catherine slipped away, trying to regain control of her face.
"What are you trying to say," she replied carefully, and as controlled as possible.

"Do you really think you're seeing anything," she asked, just as careful, "Or is this about something else?"
"Something else?"

She didn't like, or even understand the implication at all, and looked to Theo for support, who simply shrugged his shoulders.
Her heart sank.

"Are you sure you're not just trying to see things," Esther suggested, "To distract from another issue?"

"She doesn't want to blame you," Theo cut in, trying to prevent the worst, she assumed, "But it seems there is something else going on. If you want to run, you don't need a big a reason as this. We'll help you."

"What are you suggesting," Catherine pressed, even though she knew she didn't want an answer.

And again, she was only met with two pitying looks.
This time, she couldn't hide the shake in her voice.
"Thank you," she muttered, "I think we should go."

Esther and Theo broke out into encouraging phrases, but it didn't stop her from starting to pack up as quickly as she could.

Her hands were shaking the entire time, and she hoped she could hide it better than everything else.

Catherine put everything back as neatly as she could, and after a while as her friends noticed she wasn't much to talk to, they joined her.

It didn't surprise her that they didn't believe her. It shouldn't surprise her, at all. For a while now, she'd had the feeling that they suspected her of losing her mind, and in a sense, she'd already admitted to it. Knew that in some way, they must be right. To them, at least.

They didn't hear her. For some reason, they weren't able to listen.

A horrible thought crossed her mind.

Between them, and all those horrible, rich, arrogant people she surrounded herself with, she didn't feel heard most of the time. Even less than before, when she was no one, she had to admit. Now, everyone had a lot to say, and no time to listen.

The only person that proved to be the exception time and time again, was Alastor.

He challenged her, even made fun of her- but everything she said, she did, had an impact. Was acknowledged.
He had squeezed himself into every crevice of her mind, her sense of normalcy, so that there was no way to ever truly escape. And still- sometimes, she had to admit, he was the only person that made sense in any way.

And that was scarier than any gang involvement that could ever be real, or not.

Catherine jumped as Esther grabbed her hand out of seemingly nowhere, and Theo appeared right behind her.
It was hard not to feel cornered then. Helpless. For some reason.

"Theo's right," Esther agreed, "We want to help you. But that also means we have to tell you the truth. And I think... we think you're chasing something invisible. And that's very dangerous. Not worth throwing your life away over. Everything you've accomplished."

She wanted to get angry. She wanted to scream at them. That they were the crazy ones. That she knew that what she had gathered was true, a possible lead, and that she knew exactly what she'd seen in his eyes the night Mr. Fitch attacked her.

That all this evidence was too good, too much to be coincidence, no matter how much they pressed her to believe that.

Instead, she said, "Alright. That's quite alright. I understand."

She knew they didn't believe her. But if she was honest, it didn't matter. One way or another, she would prove to them that she wasn't crazy, or trying to do away with any unwanted feelings by giving another reason, as they so horribly implied.

As she put away the last newspaper with still shaking hands, her voice finally gained some strength again.
"No, really," she stated, again, "It's alright. I'll find a way."

Theo's hand on her shoulder was supposed to feel encouraging, and in a way, it did- just not the way he wanted to, she guessed.

"I'll find a way," she repeated, slipping away, "And then, you'll be sorry."

Chapter Text

March 1932.

As Catherine's reflection blinked back at her, she realized she had a hard time aligning the things she felt, and those she saw. The woman staring back was almost a stranger that irked her, spooked her, yet she felt envious of her all the same.

All the pain, fear, and exhaustion was nowhere to be seen. All there was were big, brown eyes, in a perfectly made up face.

She hated it. That she was able to hide it so well. That she played along so well, and was the perfect doll to dress up and arrange however you pleased.

Her hand wandered over to the other, but she could stop herself before falling back into fidgeting. Instead, she closed her eyes, trying to take a deep breath, and failing.

Catherine swallowed, and allowed herself another moment in solitude, listening to the faint sounds of music, a party, important people talking over each other.

Her moment of peace was cut short, as she could very well make out one voice in the tangled mess of the other, less important ones.

And people had the audacity to call her a siren. She didn't just hear it; she could feel him getting closer.
So it was no surprise to watch him open the door, in a way that wouldn't make a noise.

Always careful. Always ready to surprise her.

Well, this time, he didn't. She didn't turn around as he greeted her, and continued to watch his every move through the mirror in front of her.

If it bothered him, he didn't show it. Alastor smiled at her, and she smiled back, even though his presence closing in on her made her uneasy.

Their stalemate, caused by her initial confrontation, and his 'waste of a favor', as he called it, hadn't ceased, and continued to be an unspoken set of rules they happily abided by.

Because it was easier to. And for once, they seemed to be agreeing on something. Neither of them wanted to discuss it again. Neither of them wanted to admit to anything, or much worse- allow another moment of weakness.

He came to a stop right behind her, never breaking eye contact as they both stared into the mirror, back at each other.

"Are you quite alright," Alastor asked, and the lacking term of endearment strangely made her weary.

"Of course," she replied nonetheless.

She couldn't avert her eyes, and watched him scan her, as his gaze wandered down her shoulders, and got stuck right on her back, almost fully exposed by the evening gown she wore; a waterfall of satin fabric falling down her back in a V shape.

He lingered too long to count as coincidence.

Catherine felt herself tense, her shoulders falling back down as soon as she caught it.

Maybe, she'd been too late- at first, she couldn't tell. Her heart beat faster nevertheless as he reached out to his right.

He grabbed her shawl, swiftly putting it around her shoulders.

"You're shivering," he simply commented, and that was almost enough to send another shiver down her spine.

Instead, she held his gaze, trying not to back down, even as his hand took a rest on her shoulder, lingering.

She didn't know what to say, what to do to throw him off her scent. She didn't know anything, except to freeze as his fingertips carefully mapped out her shoulders.

What a picture, looking back at her in the mirror. He had gotten his statue, to bend and shape, alright.

A whirlwind of impressions, feelings, descended upon her, one more worrying than the other.

Catherine had to realize that old instincts were slowly creeping back. In truth, they had been for a while, but only now did she understand that it was all the wrong ones.

Because she couldn't tell how long playing nice would work. Or what had to happen before she truly, fully snapped, like a twig, like the mirrors she'd been thrown against. But there wasn't much of a choice, was there? She had to surpress her instincts. The ones that would get her into deeper trouble.

Still- sometimes, she wished she had never let go of that mirror shard.

"I'm fine," she finally coughed, clearing her throat to hide the shake in her voice, "The excitement of stage is wearing off, that is all."

He hummed, but she could see that he didn't believe a single word she'd said. She had no idea what to do then, and grew more nervous every second for no reason that made any sense- or would not leave her ridiculed if she ever told Esther or Theo.

It didn't make any sense at all. One moment, she kept her role as diligently as possible- the next, she was a mess. Of course, she could never admit to the perfectly reasonable explanation right in front of her; that it was his presence alone, her particular ability to fight against the draw, the fear. That it was like tossing a coin, to see how well she fared.

And everyday, it killed her inside a little further. That she didn't know how to fight it. That she was playing with fire, and wa dreadfully prepared. What did it matter, that she managed so well to scheme around him, when everything turned into ash and dust as soon as he was involved.

His hands left her shoulders, and for some reason, his movement afterwards seemed too quick, too dangerous, for her not to react.

On instinct, she stood up, ready to bolt- defensive and defenseless all at the same time.

Once again, he was too close. His breath on her face reminded her of her horrible, horrible weakness, even though she had many reasons, many pictures inside her head that should finally make it all go away.

It concerned her that it didn't. It put her in a position that made her question her morality, her virtue, her guilt, even further.

His eyes fluttered for the merest moment, and he swallowed, and she felt her thoughts racing so fast, she got dizzy.

This unspoken moment went by so fast, she was close to questioning if it had happened at all.

To her luck, or dismay- she wasn't able to tell anymore- he seemed to ignore her sudden fear.

All while she was well aware that he wouldn't forget.
"I have a surprise for you," he mumbled before stepping back and handing her two pieces of paper.

She received them without any excitement. Catherine stared down, and as she realized what she was holding, she second-guessed herself, and him in extension.

"Are you serious," she asked, her eyes still stuck on two tickets to an opera, the date about two weeks from today.

"Salome," he commented on her disbelief, "Do you dislike opera? Opening nights? Or the topic?"

She couldn't help but look at him in annoyance, the initial feelings about his presence gone.

In fact, this time she knew what the opera was about, if only because she had to listen to people talk about art to feel important. And didn't appreciate the jab, since she was almost certain he alluded to the fact that the opera potrayed an obsessed woman, kissing a decapitated prophet's lips.

His eyes glittered in amusement, once again reading her quite perfectly.

"I thought it might be fun," he replied, and chuckled at her unmoving expression, waiting for the real answer.

"Besides," he continued after a short while, "I need us to make an appearance, as there'll be some people present I am interested in doing business with. Believe me, I wouldn't ask you simply to enjoy your company, as I know what your answer would be then."

"Do you, now," she said before thinking, teasing, without meaning to.

"Why, yes," he confirmed, "You made it very clear you're firm on keeping your distance."

She hated him for the fact that his words almost made her feel guilty.

"Well, it's not all my fault," she mumbled, and looked away so she wouldn't see his reaction, and feel even worse.

It was hard to do so. To look away, but also remind herself every single second that she was certain he was a horrible person, even though his demeanor the night she'd confronted him had never quite left her, and haunted her more than she cared to admit.

So she didn't look. A little help to soothe her confused mind was all she could do.

"What people," she asked to change the subject.
"Important ones, of course. Whom you will thoroughly charm, I'm certain."

She couldn't help but roll her eyes then, and he laughed, which finally made her look back up to him.

It bothered her that it looked so natural.
So beautiful.

"I'll try my very best," she replied weakly, and knew he noticed.

Once more, he reached out to fix her apperance, and she didn't fight against it, and put all her efforts into pretending she didn't melt at his touch at least a little.

"Are you alright now," he asked softly, "To go back out?"

How did he do it? How was he so cold, and yet so caring, a liar, yet it felt so horribly like the truth?

She simply nodded, scared she would reveal too much otherwise. Inclined to go back to playing the overwhelmed, tempted girl, even though it would almost take no pretense, which was worrying in itself.

Still, she didn't dare. There had to be another tactic, one that wouldn't make her stumble so much.
She would figure it out. For her own sake.
For survival.

He offered his arm, and she took it, trying not to hesitate. She tried not to look, but failed at it.

With the mask slowly slipping back on, it was easier to. Even though he could see right through it.

Let him see, she thought. Let him wallow in his utter pride, the sense that he was winning.

She would turn it all around. And then, he would realize his mistake in underestimating her so.
They all would.

His gaze wavered, heavy with something she didn't understand. Didn't care to understand. Or rather, didn't dare to.

And maybe, it was for the better. Or maybe, it just simply wasn't time yet, and she could only hope that it wouldn't come back to haunt her that she couldn't tell now.

Only one thing she knew for certain; while he believed himself to be on top of the game, and always one step ahead of her, she had grown comfortable in bowing down. And when she finally pounced, he would never see her coming. That's what she had to believe, keep telling herself, until she finally believed it.

And then, they would see who would carry whose head in their hands.

Chapter Text

April 1932.

Catherine felt as if she had stuffed herself into a costume. She was hot, sticky, and short of breath, even though the clothes themselves weren't far from what she'd gotten used to, albeit a bit fancier.

She was headed to the opera, after all.

But it wasn't the evening gown, or the fur, or the pearls adorning her that made her feel this way- no, it was the role she willed herself to play, one she never wanted to assume again.

A scorned woman. Belonging to another.

The ticket in her purse weighed heavy as she finally heard a husk, deep voice, inviting her inside.

Catherine was met with the overwhelming scent of cigar smoke; so abundantly, it was hard to look further than a few inches.

She surpressed the urge to wave in front of her face. She didn't want to make a bad impression to start.

Because she needed this to work. The role. The plan. The secrecy of it all.

She was tired of sitting on her own fears and paranoia. It was time to act.

As she sat down, not bothering to take off her coat, and kindly asked the rugged man not to light another cigar, the only thing she could think about was how she could even begin to explain the smell to Alastor later. Theo came to mind, until she realized just how occupied she was with Alastor every second of the day.

Well, that would stop soon, too. As soon as she had her answers.

"How can I help you," the man said, and she had to collect her thoughts for a moment.

His demeanor wasn't soft or sensible by any means- in fact, he almost seemed dismissive- but if her information was to be believed, there was no better private detective in town.
And she'd spent hours upon hours on research. It had better be true.

Her left hand reached into her coat pocket, the strange key she'd stolen plopping onto the table with a metallic clink, followed by the much less intimidating copy.

Catherine made a point to let her hand rest right next to them, the simple wedding band on her ring finger reflecting the little light this dusk room allowed.

It felt like it was burning, hot and cold all at the same time. Strange the feeling, to pose as something she hadn't been for a long time.

Her voice sounded like a strangers, too, as she spoke up. Pleading, innocent, clueless.
Rich.

"I fear my husband might be unfaithful," she explained, stacking lies upon lies, the irony of the situation hardly setting in, "I found this key in his bureau, and I fear it might hold the answers."

The detectives gaze was intense, and for a moment she feared he didn't believe her, even though she had no reason to.

Her breath hitched as he picked the original key up, which she hadn't yet managed to put back, which made it increasingly difficult to sleep through the night.

He looked at it, his brows deep in his face as he dragged his thick thumb across it. She noticed dirt under the nail, and the image reminded her of so many horrible things, she was ready to bolt out of the room.

"It's old," he commented as she avoided to look too closely at his hands, "Not very usual."

She hummed, reminded of another man, and got nauseous.

For a while, the detective didn't speak. Then, in one smooth motion, he put the key down, snatched the copy, and put it inside a drawer attached to his desk.

Too quickly, she grapped the original to slid it back into her coat pocket.

The detective watched her before he sighed. She could tell he wasn't taking her seriously, but for once, that might be to her advantage.

Finally, she pulled her left hand away to pull out a ridiculous amount of bills that in the past, might have fed her for months on end. Now, it didn't even make much of a dent.
It still felt wrong. Morbid, truly. How well Alastor had taken care of her. Helped her to be able to take care of herself.

"The money," she stated. She felt, sounded dumb, but maybe that was just right. A worried wife throwing around money that wasn't hers to begin with was certainly a more believable story than whatever came close to the truth.

And the truth was not something she was ready to share.

Not until she could confirm. Not even to a detective.

You never knew, what kind of people Alastor happened to have eating right out his palm.

Upon seeing the money, the detectives face softened, and Catherine couldn't decide whether that was a good sign or not.

"I'll see what I can do," he agreed, "Leave me a way to reach you, and I'll let you know what I can dig up."

She wrote down her adress, her telephone number, but not her full name. She couldn't risk it.

The detective stared down at her notes, furrowing his brows once more, indicating he assumed she didn't tell the entire truth.

He looked back at the stack if bills, sighed again, and lit another cigar, indicating that she was dismissed.

Catherine wasted no time, and the city air had never smelled sweeter.

She looked from left to right, laughing at her own paranoia, and pulling her coat tighter as she made her way to the opera.

It was more chilly than was usual for this time of year, and it was only then she realized how flushed her face felt.

She walked quickly, forgetting all about the ring still decorating her finger.

Luckily, she wasn't late at all, in fact, she was a half hour early.

Usually, she would expect Alastor to be just as punctual, maybe even more. She thought he would step out any moment, his usual, casual smile, making her jump out of her own skin even though she knew they were meeting all along.

But he kept her waiting. After a few minutes, she started shivering, people around her already pooling around and into the building.

She looked around, feeling like a lost puppy, and hated it. Of course, she knew he was coming back from out of town only today, as he'd recently started to make a point out of telling her his excact wherabouts, for example why exactly he couldn't pick her up, with a smugness that sometimes made her want to scratch his eyes out.

But he was never late to anything. Beside herself, she started worrying. That he wanted to teach her a lesson, annoy her, or even worse- he already knew where she had gone. What she was planning.

She shook her head to drive away the horrid thoughts, trying hard not to fidget, in case he would suddenly pop into existence.

Only the chill breeze prevented her from sweating as she resolved that he either got hold up at his mother's, or more likely, was already inside, chatting up some important person or another.

She stifled a misplaced smile and straightened her spine before stepping inside the theatre walls.

In comparison to the detective's office, the large foyer lit up with warm, electric light.

Someone handed her a glass, and she walked around, greeting those she knew with a smile, still rather desperately looking for Alastor.

Maybe he truly wanted to teach her a lesson, and embarass her. Slowly, she felt herself getting enraged, frustrated, surely fueled by her own admission of guilt, although she would never admit it.

But no racing thoughts, no nervous tapping of her food made Alastor appear.

Could it be that he had stood her up? That he did know?
In one last desperate attempt, her eyes wandered across the room, and while there was no sign of Alastor, there was somebody she locked eyes with.

While she couldn't place the gentleman, he certainly looked like he knew exactly why he was looking at her.

And a gentleman he seemed to be, alright.

His clothes, while simple, in blacks and whites, expressed unimaginable wealth. Short, dark hair, accompanied by a surprisingly youthful face and a neatly trimmed mustache that was perfectly geometrical.

He sat, even though everybody else was standing around him, never ceasing to talk.

He barely acknowledged them, not letting her out of his sight, so much so that it let her heart sink deeply into her stomach.

Catherine knew all too well what a look like that meant. And this time, there was noone to shield her from it. To whisk her away, letting their eyes follow her across the room, never enough to be more than just that.
Looks. Whispers.

She was certain that Alastor would appear then, but fate seemed to be against her.

Or, maybe, stacking the cards in her favor.

The man stood up, the people around him moving without looking, parting for him in a way she'd never seen before, all while never breaking eye contact.

The first bell rung before he could make his way over to her, the neatly placed rules falling apart as everyone longed to get to their seats.

He raised his flute of champagne to her, his smile inexplicable, causing her a strange mix of emotion.
First and foremost, that she wasn't sure if she wished for Alastor to be here, or not.

Yet, the second, and then the third bell rung, the stage got dark, and light again, without Alastor ever making an appearance. Strangely, after a while, she didn't have any feelings about it other than a little bit of ill-placed gratification.

The flare of noise as the orchestra started playing was more than enough to pull her right out of it, though.
The music was violent, loud, and rough. It conveyed a desperation, an anger she felt, but didnt understand.

It was hard to follow, especially since from where she was sitting, she could still see the man from before.
And he could see her, too.

As Salome succumbed to her madness on stage, she could feel eyes on her the entire time.

She should've been nervous, or scared, but the music, her own disappointment and rage only made her think that's what you get.
That's what you get for leaving me.

It was entirely illogical, to think that staring back, allowing herself to be open towards a clear display of interest, would change anything about her situation.

But as she batted her eyes, high above the stage across the room in a way that might not even be visible, she felt empowered.

Like a stray dog, feeling cornered. Inclined to bite.

The first half came and went, and she wasn't sure how much she'd actually listened and watched.

At intermission, he found her, naturally, two new flutes of champagne in hand, as if noone bothered to check.

A man like that- he could do what he wanted. What was a little alcohol, when you carried yourself like that?

With a gracious nod of his head, he handed her the glass, and she thanked him, waiting.

The intensity of his wanting was staggering. He did not hide his intentions. He didn't need to, clearly.

"I saw you," he simply said, without any introduction, "On stage, a couple of weeks ago. You were delightful."

They moved to a small table, and he guided her without ever saying anything, much less touch her.
She felt dizzy.

His accent was british, fancy- and suddenly, it struck her that this time around, noone tried to follow him, or talk to him, even though he'd been surrounded by people even in his own box as the show was still playing.

Catherine thanked him, feigning flattery, and to her shock, realized that it worked exactly as intended.

She wasn't used to her acts just working like that. Without any effort.

"I'm sorry," she said, encouraged by the fact that he simply assumed she must be flattered, "I fear I don't know who you are, Sir."

He didn't seem to be offended at all, extending a hand with a smile.

"Of course," he replied, turning the back of her hand upward before bending down for a kiss, which felt enitirely too much- but then, it didn't. "You can call me William, if you please."

A first name only. He was relaxed. Informal.
Sure to get what he wanted.

Catherine knew it should scare her. That she had enough trouble with powerful men, and didn't need any more.
But then again, it felt like easy payback, even though that in itself was a horrible thought.

He looked down at her hand, his brows raised.
"Don't tell me you are married. Wherever did you hide your husband? I don't see your usual company anywhere around."

It was only then she realized that she'd never taken the wedding band of- if it was stupidity or habit, she couldn't tell.

Her heart thundered inside her chest, and she wanted to laugh, at her mistake, at the assumption that she was married to Alastor, or even the fact that he'd been here, she would've been found out, folded quicker than she wanted to imagine.

William looked at her in expectation, and somehow, she managed to choke down her laughter, and give him a mysterious, knowing smile instead.

"Not at all," she chuckled, "It's simply a safety precaution, when I go into town alone in the evenings. Without my 'usual company', I fear I might give the wrong impression."

Of a whore. A victim. She wasn't sure if he understood the subtext, but it didn't matter, really.

It seemed it didn't matter to him, either. He flashed her a smile, finally letting go of her hand.

"A smart woman. And beautiful, too," he commented, "I quite enjoy that."

She averted her eyes, bashful, still utterly dumbfounded that he simply chose to believe her act.
Well, why wouldn't he?

His demeanor, while perfectly polite, came across as almost aggressive. He took the space he needed, without any consideration. Probably without thinking about it at all.

Aside from violent men at work, at home, she'd never encountered something like that. Much less with that much of a confident presence, considering those men only acted like this with women like her.

It felt wrong to think so, but in comparison, Alastor almost seemed careful, closed off.

This man didn't have to say what he wanted, yet he would, even though it was clear as a summer sky.

He leaned forward, his expression wanting, taking.
"Apologies," he muttered, not presenting himself as apologetic at all, "But I have to be blunt. I noticed you, before. You're utterly wasted, on those small stages, on meaningless gigs. You, my dear, are a face for the movies."

The intent was obvious, yet she decided to humor him, even though she couldn't admit why.

It stung regardless, that he called her entire career until now worthless. It was on purpose, of course. Make her feel small, so whatever he offered next sounded even sweeter.

She had been at this point before. And even though she should be proud, that she was more steady, more prepared this time, all she could think about was how much easier William was to read than Alastor.

How much easier she could've had it. If only. This man, William, was not to be trusted, even though he seemed so easy to play.

But at least, it was obvious. At least, she didn't have to second-guess herself.

"And I'm sure you have connections," she guessed, and he smiled at her as if she knew nothing.

"Darling," he said, his accent strangely thicker than before, the pet name stinging her more than she had assumed, "I am the connection."

She didn't know what to say then.

"After the show," he continued, "Some aquaintances and I will have a small get-together. If you'd like to join, I could tell you all about it."

He paused, smiling at her like he'd figured her all out.
"Make you a star," he muttered, grabbing her hand again.

This time, she pulled away, letting her eyes glimmer almost dangerously.
Tempting.

"I can't," she answered, less careful than she ought to, "Unless the setting his very private, which I assume it isn't."

"You can't be seen," he concluded, feeling very smart, surely, "Without the man that isn't your husband."

She nodded, swallowing her discomfort still.
Catherine saw how she edged him on. How much more he wanted her to join, after she refused.

It was slimy. See-through, all the way. Like a child that wanted another child's toy, simple as that. And she played right into the fantasy, like it was second nature.
It was too easy. Almost.

He shrugged, his hand reaching into his pocket as rehearsed as the opera that would soon resume.
Suddenly, she held a small card inside her hands. It felt expensive, wrong.

But also, like a chance.

William Fern. Pictures. Business, she read, several telephone numbers and adresses underneath. In London, Los Angeles.

She felt like she was wearing a costume even more than before, even more than the actors she'd just seen on stage.
A silly girl. Just a girl, reaching for the stars. A whore. A Jezebel, even, for some reason.

But as she looked down on the card, and back up at him, black on white, just like Williams attire, just as clear-cut as his intentions with her, she saw a path forming right between the black and white.

A way out.

Chapter Text

Catherine couldn't take it anymore. The suspense was killing her, and at this point, she didn't care if it made her act stupid.

If only she'd had certain information earlier, then she would've realized that this was only the beginning.
That after everything, she was still a silly, little girl.
So with her heart still beating out of control from tonight's events, she decided to try her luck with breaking into Alastor's home again, which was as easy as ever.

It was stupid. Thoughtless. Desperate.
But, to hell with it. To hell with her.

Rationally, she'd figured that if he wasn't home, it meant he would stay somewhere else for the night, and that it would be safest to dispose of the key now.

It didn't help her shaking hands as she was let in, just barely catching the housekeeper before she went home herself, the shake just increasing with every step she took upstairs, without turning on the light.

Of course, it felt forbidden. And of course, she felt guilty. But then she thought about poor, dead Mr. Fitch, the articles, and all the other things she was on the cusp of uncovering, and as horrible as it sounded, it was soothing.

That Alastor hadn't found the key to be missing yet, that the housekeeper hadn't uttered a word of her visits- all of it was a wonder.

If she had any belief in herself left, she would've believed it to be the work of a guiding hand.

And not simply stupid, unbelievable luck.

The wood of the drawer clattered along with her trembling hand as she tried to place the key in the exact same place it was before.

Over the sound, she heard another, just as she was about to close the drawer.

A door, being unlocked.
Catherine felt dizzy as she held her breath and tried to make no noise while closing the drawer.

Only then did she realize that it didn't matter.
Light fell through the cracked-open door, letting her know that time was running out.

She couldn't run. She couldn't hide. Her coat was downstairs because clearly, she was reckless.

All she managed to do was hold her breath, and step into the light. And of course, learn to be a good liar on the spot.
If only Alastor would've been as easy to lie to as this Mr. William Fern.

She stepped out and onto the stairs, and while she felt as prepared as she could be in this situation, all she could feel as she looked down towards the entrance was her heart dropping.

For a moment, while he was still unaware of her presence, she hardly recognized him.

If she'd considered his state when he told her of his mother- oh, she'd thought that it was the worst he could possibly look, the least controlled he could ever be- she'd been entirely wrong.

The man below her was a stranger, slumping against the door defeated.

Only then did he look up towards her.

She shivered, not able to read his expression at all. It was eerily empty, and she was afraid she was done for.

And who knew what that entailed, when it came to him.
"You weren't at the opera," she said without a greeting, desperately trying to turn the conversation in her favor before it began, "I was worried about you."

While it wasn't exactly a lie, it still tasted like one. She swallowed, descending the stairs, trying to hide the shake in her legs behind the waterfall of satin of her dress.

Even as she came to a stop on the last step, Alastor didn't move an inch.

Her hand found the rail. His, his hair, combing through it, leaving it a little messed up, which was highly uncharacteristic.

Her fear shifted as he shrugged. No follow-up question. No doubt.

He didn't question her being here, or even remotely the why.
Something was amiss. Something terrible.

"Well, I am perfectly fine," he replied, his voice hoarse, "No further worry needed. Run along and go home now, sweetheart."

In a lack of better judgement, she closed the space between them. She needed to see this, see him up close. Otherwise, she wouldnt believe it.

Otherwise, she wouldn't know how doomed she truly was.

She should've run along. She should've seen the state he was in as the golden oppurtunity it was, listen to him for once in her life, and leave him there, as unsuspecting as he was.

Yet somehow, she could not.

She stepped too close, that she knew. Too close for comfort, for safety. And again, she could not help herself.

"What's wrong," she asked, even considering to touch his arm, which she could luckily avoid, "What happened? You seem..."
She didn't know how to finish that sentence. He looked distraught. Like a shadow of himself, lacking charm, edge, and light.

But then, he looked so utterly human. And something about that- well, she had to admit, it was strangely intriguing.
Alastor closed his eyes, trying to force a smile, and failing miserably.

"As much as I enjoy our little games," he muttered, extending a hand to carress her cheek for a mere moment, "I'm afraid I don't feel up to it tonight. So, if you would kindly take leave, I'll see to it that I can join you again soon."

At his touch, she stepped away, almost baffled at the fact the words sounded like his, but not his voice.

She felt queasy, noticing his apparent pain at her reaction, his eyes fixated on his own hand that touched her seconds before.

"What happened," she insisted, stupid as she was. This time, it was her reaching out to him, but before she could even get close to touching his arm, he'd grabbed hers, whirling her around him, so she came to a stop right at the door.

"I cannot do this," he replied as sternly as he could apparently muster, "Not tonight. Go home, Catherine. Please."

She didn't know what she should feel more surprise over; her own name from his lips, without the hint of a pet name, or the fact that he actually begged her for something.
It was almost enough to make her feel tipsy.

He looked down at her, his facial expression seeming wrong, and strange, once more.
His eyes were big, like a child's.
Pleading. Lost.
But then, hoping.

He sighed, attempting to walk away. Before he could, she grabbed him by the arm without thinking.

"You hate this," she mumbled, possessed by some stupid fantasy of invulnerability, or power, "You don't want me to see you like this."

His jaw tensed. He pulled his arm away so quickly, so aggressively, for a moment she thought he would hit her.
She shrunk, jerked away just enough for him to notice in the state he was in. She was embarassed at her own, telling habits.

Alastor sighed again, hands kept still by his sides what seemed to take a lot of effort, which despite everything, she had to appreciate.

"Of course," he agreed, "How could I not. Yet another weakness for you to exploit."

Catherine shook her head, with half a mind to feel offended.
"That's not how I am."

Her reply almost made him laugh, but not quite.
"Sure you are. You play me to your advantage, as you should. But I do not feel like paying the price tonight."

Was that really what he was thinking? That she could manipulate him, just as easily as did he? That she already did, while she felt she was losing every conversation, even if it wasnt a competition? It was unbelievable, really.

But then, relieving. As guilty as it made her feel, it felt eerily like winning nonetheless.

"Why do you think there has to be a price to everything," she questioned, "You're upset. Maybe I would like to help you."

This time, he managed something akin to a laugh- yet it wasn't as scary, or beautiful, or believable as usual.
In truth, it was only sad.

"Don't lie to me, now," he said, barely audible, "I've been through enough. I know you would not stay, comfort, do anything for my sake. Don't make me believe things I can't afford to believe in."

He looked at her, searching, yet so disappointed. As if she'd already proven him right.
As if she wasn't tempted to stay, for whatever reason.

She wished it was to gain an advantage. Or, simply to figure out what, who he was, truly.

"Good night," he stated, turning before she could say a word, or react in any way.

The reasons were quite simple, she was afraid.
She didn't want to leave him alone. Not in this state. She felt bad for him, even though he might not deserve it.

Catherine didn't even know why. She'd tried so hard to push any kind feelings towards him away, to keep her distance, in fear of her virtue- and yet, now that she could go, she stood her ground and didn't move a muscle.

Maybe it would help her gain an advantage in all this mess as well, to play a comforting role now, just as he'd alluded to.

She didn't want to think like this- be like this. To prove him right.
To become like him.

But then, had he left her a choice? She had to, before her inexplicable feelings consumed her.

Even though, if she was truly honest, maybe that was simply what was occuring just this moment. Either way, her game was dangerous.

As he reached the doorframe, he held onto it, turning to find her still glued in the exact same spot.

His body slacked even more, and she couldn't tell if he was angry or glad about her still standing there. Maybe he didn't really know himself, as strange as that still seemed to her.

"She's dead," he simply said, "She's gone, and with her my last tether to humanity, I fear."

Catherine didn't question this statement, when she should've. Instead, she nodded, taking a step forward.

It was almost like she had no survival instinct at all.
Because suddenly, it all made sense. His mother. His sentimental attachment crumbling down on top of him, something he would usually surely make fun of. The fact that it was so uncomfortable to have her see him while it happened.

He watched her step towards him carefully, before shrugging once more, disappearing into the next room.
Where was her survival instinct now, as she followed him right into it?

He went right behind the bar, pouring two drinks like a gentleman, and sliding it over without looking at her.
She didn't even think of complaining about the lack of ice.
For a while, they nursed silently on their drinks. She sat down, while he stayed right where he was.

"I'm staying by choice," she spoke into the silence, "You don't have to worry about a price."

Only then was she reminded of her old life, and felt queasy. Once again, he didn't comment on it, which made it feel even more strange, somehow.

"Why," he simply asked.
"I dont know," she replied as truthfully as she was able to.
He hummed, taking another sip.
"You don't owe me pity."
"I know."
He chuckled.
"Just one more favor. Then you're free."

She swallowed.
"Yes. But I feel like that shouldn't be important right now."
He stared down at his glass.
"But you think about it all the time, even now, don't you," he questioned.

"Of course," she breathed, "You're- it's always in the back of my mind."

"And yet, you stay," he said.
"And yet, I stay," she confirmed.

He blinked, his hands shaking ever so lightly as he picked the glass up again.

"You're clever," he said, "Sometimes I feel, you and I, we're cut from the same cloth."

She remembered moments ago, how easily he spotted her flinching at his erratic movements.
"Violence," she pieced together, without really having to think about it, "It makes and breaks people."

The shadow of a smile played across his lips, letting her know she had understood him perfectly well.

"Did she recognize you," Catherine asked, "In her last moments?"

His silence was answer enough.
"It should ease me," he said, "That she doesn't have to suffer anymore."
"But it doesn't."

Without a warning, he changed the subject.
"You were married, weren't you?"

She was too surprised, too shocked, to reply.
She had taken off the ring after the opera, not intending on making the same mistake twice. It hadn't helped. He'd had to have figured her out long before tonight.

Strangely, it didn't scare her as much as she anticipated. It should scare her, that he'd had her figured out for so long, but suddenly, it was so easy. Understanding him was as easy as recognizing yourself in the mirror.

The same cloth. The same pain.

"Or did I steal away a runaway bride," he jokingly asked.
Something in his eyes, in the way he so carefully picked his words, made her heart stutter.

Despite what he said, what she felt, it was all still a game. Every little gesture, every little word. And to her shock, he was rather desperately trying to get the advantage.

She was sure he could see the disappointment in her eyes.

"I was," she answered, more steadily than she'd expected, "I am not anymore."

"Your faith is strong," he concluded, "I can't imagine you allowing divorce. No matter the violence."

Instead of replying outright, she asked, "When did it happen, that your mother lost her mind?"

Color slowly returned to his face, as if their back-and-forth gave him some sense of normalcy. She would judge him for it- if only it didn't make her feel glad. If only she didn't feel the same.

"After my father died," he replied, "And then some years after. The distress never went away, it just manifested differently. After there was noone to defend yourself against anymore. After there was no child you wanted to protect."

He raised his brows, expecting an answer from her now that he'd been honest, still not entirely looking like himself, even though this exchange of information, of pain, felt more familiar than anything else tonight.

"My husband is dead," she stated, before turning to questioning him again, "Your mother... she mistook you for him."

"And who can blame her? Unfortunately, we look very alike," he said without making eye contact, taking a deep breath. "What happened to your husband?"

She hardly had time to process any of the words they said, much less what they meant.

Looking at the state he was in, she felt safe. Too safe. Like she could make him not only underestimate her, but trust her, too.

And she wanted that. For whatever reason. She only knew for certain that it was a horrible, selfish one.

"I felt like the luckiest girl in the world," she recounted, "He was handsome. I thought he was kind. But then, the mask slipped. And underneath, I found a monster."

He said nothing, and she should've continued with nothing, but suddenly, it all rolled off her tongue so easily. All she'd kept inside for years on end.

"I tried to bear it, I really did," she added frantically, yet so calm, "I was supposed to. But one day, I couldn't. I was slicing the chicken for dinner, into ridiculously thin slices, just as he liked, just to please him, and he still found a way to... to blame me. And then, I couldn't take it anymore. And I fought back."

The pictures flooded in, returned to her violently. The blood. Her sobs, as she kept stabbing, even as he didn't move no more, didn't make a single sound, even as there was no blood left to spill. She remembered the way his blood mixed with the freshly dug-up earth under her nails, a color that still made her weary to this day.

A color Alastor wore quite often. That reminded her of what she really was. Of who she really was.

She looked back at him, his moving, shaking shoulders, and to her horror, realized that he was laughing.

Chapter Text

In the midst of her most sinful confession, he was laughing. Then, he wiped away what seemed to be a tear, and she didn't know what to think anymore.

His gaze met hers.
"Apologies," he muttered, "Of all the mysteries I thought I would uncover about you, this is- well, hardly anyone surprises me the way you do."

The glimmer in his eyes should've made her run and hide. He seemed surprised, yes- but also, strangely pleased.

Like he'd finally seen her in a light that utterly fascinated him. As if it was desireable, to be this deranged.

While she was disgusted with him, with herself, and didn't fully know what to make of it- she felt seen. For once. Not locked away, in a role to play for someone or another, not pretending.

The cards were on the table, and he seemed to consider her a royal flush.

She hardly thought of poor, dead Mr. Fitch as he looked at her with new intrigue.

It was sickening. But then, so much more than that.

"I wish I'd had the guts," he said, too casually, too broken, as he poured another drink, "I should've ended him when I had the chance. Act sooner, not to let him die because of if own shortcomings. I wasn't brave enough. And I will never forgive myself. For what it did to me. To my mother."

Catherine didn't know if discomfort was the right word for what she was feeling in this moment. She wanted to understand more, or less- she wanted to get out, yet she basked in the feeling of him finally revealing himself.
He seemed to feel similarly, still studying her, still so utterly heartbroken.

"Why are you here," he asked again, "Other than turning my opinion of you upside down, that is."
"As if you're not doing the same."

His fingers curled inwards, then stretched out again. His body was a man's- yet, his face still mirrored that of a broken boy.

"You enjoy this," he stated, "To see me weak."

"I revealed my biggest secret to you, and yet you still feel the need for another upper hand," she shot back, "We could see eye to eye, if you allowed it, you know."

She wasn't even sure if she meant it. Of course, after all that had happened, she enjoyed his vulnerability more than she cared to admit. So much so that she pushed away her guilt, her need to keep her distance, as to not to do something stupid.

He took another long sip, and didn't look satisfied with himself as he spoke.
"If I lower myself one step further, I'm afraid you'd have me on my knees."

Nothing had ever prepared her for the jolt that went through her body at his words.

He watched her as she hoped that she at least had been prepared to surpress her inner urges to show up on her face.

"Why is everything about power with you," she wondered, "You overestimate how much I feel the need to be in control."

"And you underestimate yourself quite frequently," he replied, "So, I fear we are at a pass."

If only he knew. How right, and wrong he was all at the same time.

She wanted to feel happy, that for the first time, he hadn't quite figured her out. But it slipped her mind as they locked eyes.

"Would it be so difficult for you to take the things I say as they are for once," she asked, "No pretension. No games. Just you and me, trying to forget what we just said."

Of course, he chuckled at that. Still empty and sad, but amused nonetheless.

"Distraction. Comfort," he commented, and she nodded, which made him chuckle again.

It made her stomach turn in a way that was supposed to be uncomfortable- yet, it wasn't.

Right after, he looked just as slumped as at the start.
"I can still leave," she suggested.

He looked down, hating the words he was about to say before they left his mouth.
"Don't. Stay. Not because you feel the need to. Because you want to."

It was odd, to see him struggle so much, just after he made her admit to things she swore to take to the grave.

Without thinking, she grabbed her glass, joining him behind the bar, leaving behind the precious space between them.
For a moment, he seemed to relax, but not for long. She grabbed the bottle he'd been pouring out of, adding some more liquid to their glasses before spotting an orange.

She didn't know what to do with her hands, much less herself. She didn't even know what it entailed to stay now, to pose as comfort, when it had been nothing but difficult until now.

Both would have a hard time abiding to the rules. To be simply present, with no pretension.

It was nervewrecking. But somehow, so exciting.

She threw consideration out of the window as she grabbed a knife laying there, attempting to cut away some of the peel.

He didn't give his opinion on it, and instead asked, "No pretension: Why stay?"

The first peel fell into the glass, beautifully curled, leaving a nice scent on its way down.

For a moment, it rid her of the tension she felt. The tension she shouldn't feel. He had lost someone dear to him, and she'd just revealed the worst thing about herself.

But for once, she felt true closeness, evem though she didn't want to. She felt a familiarity, a smudge of the comfort she'd promised for some reason, and it filled the air with electricity.

She should go. She couldn't. At least until she had cut off the second orange peel.

"I can't leave you like this," she finally replied, "I want to. I want to prove that I-"

A yelp interrupted her as the knife slid off, right into her finger.

While she knew it was coming, she was still surprised at the drop of blood pushing itself out of her thumb.

Before she could react, he had her wrist in a tight, yet soft grip, looking down at her with something almost resembling worry.

He twisted the knife out of her hand incredibly efficient, pulling her closer with the hand that was holding her wrist.

"You ought to be careful," he mumbled, pulling a hankerchief out of his pocket, "I can't have you hurt yourself."

Only then did she realize how close he was standing, and she imagined a jolt of surprise going through him as well. Still, he pressed the hankerchief to her thumb, engrossed in his own action.

It took him a corncerningly long while to realize that she was staring at him.

He was not himself tonight. But then, neither was she.
His eyes had the most remarkable flecks of green and gold, and it concerned her that she only now realized.

She was a lost soul. And while this was supposed to be no game, the stakes felt incredibly high.

He looked down, and she followed, watching the tiny speck of blood on the hankerchief grow into a small blossom.
It was almost pretty.

"Is that why you're scared of me," he asked, "Because you think I'll turn on you?"

"I'm not scared of you," she retorted, both of them knowing at was at least partly a lie.

She blinked, trying to find footing again before her feelings would run away with her.

"I just don't know what will happen to me," she added, "If I let you any closer."

Catherine didn't understand the sound her made at that. He pulled away the hankerchief before it disappeared into his pocket again.

Alstor looked at the small puncture intently, as if he thought, even hoped, she would spill more blood.

"If you keep saying things like that," he warned, "With that sweet voice. You're going to make a fool of me."

Her heart stopped at his words, at the stroke along her hand.

"I don't think I could," she chocked out, accompanied by something similar to a giggle. Like a silly school girl.
She should go.

She stayed right where she was, reaching out to steady herself on his arm, as if he wasn't the reason for her wobbly knees.

Nothing felt real anymore as his touch came sudden, yet soft.

It was then she wanted to tell him that she was scared. Of him. Of this. Of what she might do.
Of what she was already doing.

He looked at her with a kind if intensity that was hard not to fold under.
Even though in a way, it was pathetic.

His brows furrowed before he raised them just moments later, his face not controlled at all, which was just the cherry on top.

She wanted to laugh about it, to ridicule him. But for all those things, you needed air.

His fingertips dragged along her spine, beginning at the neck, as he looked at her deep in thought, maybe almost wonder.

She knew exactly what he was about to say, before he even had a chance to open his mouth.
She wanted to sink into the floor.

"I fear your resolve hasn't changed," he guessed, "About not catering to fragile egos? I have to tell you that right now, I am very fragile."

His hand wandered up her spine again, flew past the space between her shoulderblades, and back towards her neck. She didn't know what to say then, all the fibres in her body concentrating on not leaning into it.
Suddenly, she stood straighter.

Why still try so hard? She was doomed, and had not only admitted to it, but let herself be roped into new schemes time and time again.

There was no saving her anymore anyway. Then, why make the way down so much harder for herself?

And maybe, just maybe, to not care for once- to defy God, her mother, herself even further- would help her to drag someone else down with her.
Just a little bit. For old time's sake.

Even though she had to assume that to him, this was all an act, too. But for once, she didn't care. Not right now.

Like her clients before, a lifetime ago it felt like, she would worry about the cost later.

Her voice hardly sounded like her own as she spoke.
"There are exceptions to every rule."

His expression flickered, almost gaining the usual sharpness back, and failing.

He wanted to doubt her, yet he couldn't bring himself to.
Maybe they truly were alike.

Naturally, his palm found rest on her cheek. She felt herself growing impatient, but she didn't know why.

"Who are you," he asked, and she was taken aback by the unguardesness of it all. It was meant to be a joke, yet didn't sound like one at all.

Her lips parted on instinct as he dragged his thumb right underneath them.

"That's for you to decide," she breathed, "Isn't it. Just how you wanted."

It was a question just as much as it wasn't.
He answered, almost, as he leaned forward just a little bit more, his lips brushing hers.

They shared a look of confusion, understanding, and something one could not put into words.

Alastor shook his head, seeming almost apologetic, for once in his life having no clever line to smooth things over.

She pulled him back towards her before he could try.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, she took a real breath.
A first, true breath.

In reality, it was more similar to a gasp, which was utterly consumed by the lips on hers and hardly heard.

All of a sudden, she felt crazed, feverish even- her lungs filled, her eyes shut, her tongue tasting whiskey and orange and something so strangely human-

It seemed she couldn't get enough air as she gasped, heaved, to which his only reply was his hands curling ever so much tighter around her neck, her hair, her waist.

Catherine's hands wandered, too, even though she didn't remember deciding to let them. One still clung to his arm like her life depended on it, the other rushed across his back. She got dizzy at the way his lean body moved under his clothes, and she couldn't even begin to understand what was wrong with her.

The next thing she felt, or rather realized in this neverending sea of emotions was the wood of the bar digging into her back almost painfully.

He pushed her deeper into the edge, his lips suddenly on her neck.

"This is ruin," he said, and while her mind could hardly comprehend it, and her heart was too busy feeling and pumping blood, something inside her understood the sentiment quite perfectly.

Shamefully, she felt as if it was her soul understanding.

His hands did quick business with the buttons on the back of her dress, and she didn't utter a word of defiance.

The precious satin sliding down her arms, her body, was a sensation that felt out of this world.

She shivered while the motion was accompanied by several kisses down her shoulder.

He talked too little to be usual, and she didn't know if it should make her feel confort or discomfort. Instead, the only feeling present was the pressure on her back lifting as she was hoisted upwards.

The shock seemed to be apparent on her face, as he stopped in his tracks to look at her. Concerned. Scared, even.

Suddenly, it all made so little sense. Her accusations. Her suspicions.

Catherine touched his face carefully, in an attempt of the comfort promised, maybe to give herself a chance to clear her foggy head before she redeemed him in her mind without any reason but desire.

Desire, delusion. The line was paper-thin, she realized.
If only she'd listened to her mother.

He leaned into it, his eyes showing just how much he hated it. His thoughts had to be similar, and something about that made her laugh.

"Is it so obvious," he asked under his breath, "That I have no idea what I am doing? Or why?"

She shook her head, drinking the fear, utter uncertainty right out of the pooling greens and browns of his eyes, her fingers sliding and curling in his neck.

It wasn't a declination. It was an invitation, and somehow, they both understood.

At least invitatation enough to do away with the pesky questions.

Glass clattered as she was pushed down, this time her neck digging into the other side of the bar.

Her undergarments, flimsy as they were, were pushed up towards her chest, and as she felt lips on her stomach, wandering up mercilessly, she wanted to press her knees together, which was impossible with him right between them.

There was no hiding anymore. And contrary to his statement, his mouth felt like it knew exactly what it was doing.

One would think her previous line of work would prepare her for this. Well, it didn't. It was entirely different, and she had to admit, she had no idea what was happening to her body.

This deep, aching, throbbing feeling which only grew and didn't go away- it was entirely new, and she feared she was broken in some way. It felt entirely too much to be normal.
Her back arched as he slid higher, his hand finding a rest on the bare skin of her thigh.

"Stop me," he pleaded against her neck, and she shook her head again.

Her desperate feeling increased as his hand wandered up her inner thigh, and involuntarily, her back arched once more.

A gurdled sound escaped her throat as he finally, truly touched her.

"I'm sorry," she said without thinking, and he chuckled.

She sat up a little straighter as he asked, "Whatever for?"
She realized she didn't have an answer.

Maybe she apologized for her overbearing feelings. For the fact how easily her body made it to simply slide into it, thanks to the pooling feeling inbetween her thighs, for the fact it didnt hurt like she thought was normal.

For the fact that apparently, she knew nothing about any of this, even though her past suggested that she should.

"Shall I stop now," he said, breathless, almost desperate, and once again, she felt the need to press her knees together.
"No. I-"

She was in shambles, had no words left, and was making a fool of herself.

Alastor scanned her, almost panicked, as realization set in.
She was glad he didn't pity her.

"It's just as you said," he claimed, "No masks. For once, you need to trust me, I fear."

"Well," she croaked, "Do you trust me?"

His smile was so unguarded, she wanted to perish at its beauty.
"All I can do is try."

"Then I'll try, too," she agreed, "No masks. No pretense."
It was confirmation enough for him.

As hard as it was to let go initially, the things she felt left her little choice in the matter.

She sounded primal to her own ears, reacting to every little touch that finally seemed to help the aching feeling at least a little. She felt less inadequate, with his fingers right inside her, and the strangeness of it all, the ruin it posed as, slipped her mind as did everything else.

Except his laboured breath, only occasionally interrupted by his tongue inside her mouth.

For a moment, she wondered if that's just how he'd wanted her all along. Not naked, or in relations, but moldable. Helpless.

Of course, it slipped her mind again with the next sensation jolting through her.

Her thighs were shaking, her core engaged entirely too much as she held herself up as she fumbled for the buttons of his shirt, her hands shaking.

It wasn't nearly enough, and as shameful as it should make her feel, she needed more. More of what, she didn't exactly know anymore. Chances were she couldn't even imagine.

His movements stuttered as she got halfway, his remaining hand reaching out to stop her, a hue of uncertainty on his face, which turned out to be insecurity of all things, if you only looked closer.

Looking at him almost proved too much.
No matter what he was trying to hide, his face didn't do a good job at doing the same.

Without knowing the full scope, she repeated, "No masks. No hiding."

He raised a brow almost cynically.
"I hope you're not gonna make me regret this," he said.

The double standards should've made her hesitate. It didn't, of course, as her head was now only filled with silly things.
As if they weren't both in danger of losing the high ground. Their resolve. Their minds.

She wanted to snap back, but didn't as their lips met again, even more desperate than before. The touch, also more desperate, just as her reaction to it.

His shirt was open now, and a quick look down told her exactly why he'd been so hesitant.

Scars. Burning marks, and other scars, all over his body.
Violence.

Her hands wandered as did his, and as they did, a pressure grew inside her that was strange and new.

Just as she thought it couldn't grew more intense, that there had to be a feeling of release somewhere soon, she was pulled off the bar, and suddenly found herself standing back on her feet.

Confusion washed over her, disappointment even, before she noticed the aura of affliction all around him.

Still troubled. Still hating every moment, of something which could only be perceived as horrid weakness.

She didn't hesitate following him upstairs, torn between self-hatred and a need for some kind of gratification, even if it only came from seeing him hate himself even more than she did.

Neither let go for more than a moment, and no matter how much shame and guilt she felt, should feel, would feel if only- all the hushed words, the small touches- it was a comfort she'd never known.

And freeing, to be such comfort to someone else.

Physically, yet not entirely. Primal urges that just expressed the need for closeness. Companionship, without restraints.
Two people that were simply so tired of feeling lonely.

Slowly, her thoughts and doubts disappeared into a pleasant fog. And somehow, that didn't concern her. She was too busy being there and so far away at the same time.

Of course, there was no room for thoughts. Just the feel of sheets on her bare skin, Alastor's hair between her fingers, his skin against hers, smooth, contrasting. Her own hair poking her neck the slightest bit, surely an utter mess. In the corner of her eye, discarded clothes, the white dots of scars, cigarette burns, the smell of bodies intertwined, not at all able to disgust her in the slightest.

She was barely able to remember her own name as she was being pulled by her hips, her bare chest heaving as her hands found his face, whispering, demanding with some strange kind of courage, "Tell me you want me."

His breath was laboured, heavy on her face as his mouth curled as if in pain, unsure which direction to turn.

It was causing him discomfort, and she didn't know if she liked that fact or not. Her thighs burned, her body hovering just above his, and out of reach.

"Or can't you," she pushed, her fingers digging into his hair, "Are you not able to? To lie, if need be?"

She hardly made any sense, she feared.
Clearly, it didn't matter, as he answered regardless, pressed, bothered- downright distraught.
"I can't. I-"

He was stuttering, his voice wavering and hardly his own- so irrevocably changed, one could almost pity him.
And in a way, she did. Both of them.

He spoke up again, his voice now grave, and if she didn't know any better, close to tears.
"It's not a matter of wanting," he said, "I need you."

There was no need for more words, nor air to speak them. Without further hesitation, without constraint, she closed the last remaining space between them.

And once again, had to realize than this- whatever rotten way there was to call it- it wasn't supposed to hurt at all. It didn't.

In fact, she felt divine. The closest she could, she thought, and more than she deserved.

How much time she'd wasted. How many tears shed, only to realized she'd believed a ruse.

What did it matter now, as the rush consumed her. As she felt herself being consumed, being reduced to skin and breath, two thundering heartbeats, the strange sounds escaping her throat, rolling off her tongue without a thought for caution. There was only their two bodies, molding, fitting into each other like it was meant to be.

Time stopped just as much as it flew past her carelessly. She was flipped, and only noticed as the bedsheet touched her back, as she slid against it, however she still realized inbetween the other, much more intense sensations happening.

It devoured her, left her a shell of what she believed herself to be, his taste on her lips sending her into a craze so all-consuming, she hardly reacted to her own yelp, a quick, sharp pain that drowned in the evergrowing, deep pressure inside her core that didn't seem to know an end.

She thought she said his name against his lips, a hue of metal taste coating her tongue. She clung to him like a madwoman, feeling her nails dig into his back, his hips, pulling him closer, deeper.
Never enough.

Maybe she should've questioned it, her readiness for violence, the taste of his lips, but her mind, along with her very bones, turned liquid as she hovered over the edge of release, letting it crash over her and ride along the waves of release she'd never known, the sweet yet bitter tension that had been growing finally ebbing off, exhaustion clutching at her against her will, and only allowing herself to ease into it as she felt his body limp against her exactly as did hers.

For a moment, there was only unsure breaths, resounding heartbeats, and throbbing bodies shaking like weak twigs in the wind.

Her lids grew heavy almost immediately, no matter how hard she fought against it.

Of course, he noticed, snapping back into his ever-alert nature. It was almost aggrivating.

He found a way beside her, and her resolve vanished just as quickly as it appeared.

Catherine closed her eyes as she felt him touch her cheek so dangerously soft, as if they hadn't desperately grabbed onto each other like their life depended on it moments before.

Her breath slowed while she still fought her tiredness as hard as she could.

There was still so much to say. So many boundaries to fight out anew.

Also, she would love nothing more than do this again.

"Have regrets already gotten ahold of you," she tried to jest, and to her horror realized that her voice had reverted back to the accent of her childhood without a thing she could do about it.

He chuckled, his thumb wandering across her cheek with a barely noticable shake.

Alastor buried his nose in her hair, and she felt pleasant goosebumps wandering across her body.

"Do not talk like that, now." he mumbled, pressing a kiss to her temple, "Rest. Let sleep take you. Worry about it later."

This answer didn't satisfy her at all, but she didn't have the energy for games.

"Who are you," she said, her speech slurred as her body listened to him before her mind did.

His muffled laughter vibrated pleasantly against the side of her face.
"A stupid, stupid man," he said.

She wanted to protest, pry, understand, look at him to see if he was still the fragile man, the hurting boy, or already back to his old self, but as her lids grew even heavier, so did her lips, her entire body with it.

It was then she stopped fighting it, then using the last of her energy to turn, press herself snugly against him, making his breath hitch for just the smallest moment.

As her head found its place on his chest, she allowed herself to drift off slowly, the last thing on her mind how strange it was that his heartbeat hadn't slowed down the slightest bit, and that once more, he'd masterfully avoided answering any of her questions despite his promise. No pretense.

Tomorrow, she thought drowsily, there's still time to make him explain tomorrow.

It turned out that there wasn't.

As she awoke from the first good, dreamless sleep she'd had in ages, she found herself in an empty bed, wondering for just a moment if this had been nothing but an embarassing dream.

But this was not her bed.

She sat up, disoriented, a burning pain on the side of her neck she hardly noticed as her eyes darted around, finding all the evidence of last night gone, her own clothes folded neatly on an armchair on the opposite side of the room.

She listened for any sounds in the house, and realized she was entirely, and utterly alone.

Alastor had been able to lie. And now, in a large, cold bed, the only reminder of the night before the faint aches in her body, realization and seething shame washed over her.

She had let her guard down, and had been tricked like second nature. Believed the words spoken, and only now realized her lapse in judgement.

The only fool in this was, and always had been, herself.

Chapter Text

May 1932.

If kicking those under you, rub your success in their faces, was supposed to be bad- why didn't it feel bad?

Well, in all honesty, it didn't feel all that good either, but Catherine was nevertheless stuck on the fact that some part of her enjoyed seeing Dirk do his very best to accomondate her, causing him to scatter around her like vermin.

She just didn't feel particularly good in any other way.
Dirk scattered away again, having taking an order for a drink from her like he was a waiter, not the boss of his own establishment.

Catherine leaned back on the couch, adjusting the shawl around her neck as she felt eyes on her.

While she was nervous, it wasn't the same sensation at all, to be stared at now.

Of course, some still felt hungry, as if they were trying to see what was underneath her clothes, but the dynamic of it all had certainly shifted.

They didn't stare like they had the right to. In fact, it was almost all hidden glances, that looked like they felt forbidden.

It told her of her power. It ought to have made her feel powerful.

She feared it wasn't enough anymore. Not to lift her enough to make her see light again.
She'd lost. Plain and simple.

Catherine had not, and did not allow herself to break at any of these thoughts.

As days passed, and then a week, and then some time, she did not let it show. Not even to herself in the mirror.

She knew he was in town. She listened to his voice on the radio, amused, undeterred, and ground her teeth.

He was avoiding her. He'd left her there, and now he took to pretending she didn't exist.

Catherine had let him use her, as if she was no better than a common whore. And she could blame noone but herself.
With one night, her worth had plummeted. She'd caused her own demise, and all because she'd seriously thought she could see through him. That she could gain the upper hand, make him need her more than she needed him.

Her nails dug into her palm, as a bitter, bitter thought crossed her mind.

Had she known it was this easy to get Alastor off her case, she would've gotten it over with ages ago. Then, she would've never gotten into this mess. Make herself believe that he was different, that any man was different, any person, when all were just the same.

Greedy. Unfeeling. Monstrous.

Rich men are always bored. Taking, and taking, until there was nothing left. For the fun of it.

Well, Catherine had some things left. A copy of a key. A call she was waiting on.

And, utter hatred. That she refused to accept for the undeniable hurt and disappointment it was.

She looked up, seeing Esther coming up to her before she even looked in Catherine's direction.

Catherine pulled the thin satin tighter around her neck again, hopefully draping it the way she needed to.
The breezy fabric pulled at her skin, sticking to it ever so slightly, and she bit her tongue at the discomfort and pain it caused.

As if he'd wanted to make sure she didn't forget. What she let him do to her. What she'd degraded herself to.

Esther had the same look on her face as when Catherine had come in. She was clearly confused, maybe even slightly uncomfortable at Catherine's presence at Dirk's.
Like she didn't belong.

With furrowed brows, Esther sat down at her side. Her hand reached out for Catherine's shoulder, and she had to swallow down tears.

She wanted to be held so badly. But it would only remind her.

That nothing of it had been real.

Instead, she remembered her bloody knuckles when she'd misbehaved as a child, the way her husband pushed her head into a pillow until she could hardly breathe, and she felt herself slowly detach from the need for comfort, from herself.

Catherine inquired about Esther, and asked too many senseless questions.

Esther's confusion slowly turned into worry. Still, she did her best to make pleasant conversation.

Of course she knew Catherine had something to get off her chest, and wasn't here for nothing. Unfortunately, she was way more patient than Catherine.

Catherine heard herself talk of the movie script William had given her to read, and she recounted him gushing about how perfect she would fit the role of the leading lady, if only he could finally coerce her into coming to Los Angeles with him.

Truly, Alastor's absence was a blessing, if anything. It gave her time to sneak around William, giving him just enough attention that he grew more desperate to have her every day.

And the best part: there was no mystery to his intentions at all. He wanted her for one thing only, and he bid higher time and time again.

"You're not really considering it," Esther questioned, "To throw everything away. To get out like this."

Catherine felt her throat tighten.
Not yet. She still had to prove a point. Until then, William Fern had to wait. It wasn't as if Esther would understand, though. She'd made it clear she thought Catherine crazy.

Her sour, horrid thoughts translated into pretended laughter.

"What would I be throwing away," she asked sweetly, growing impatient waiting for Dirk, "I could be a movie star. I would hardly call that a sacrifice."

Esther looked at her like she didn't know her, and something about that hurt, deep down.
"You know he just wants to-"

"Use me," Catherine interrupted, "Well, what does it matter. Someone or other always will. Might as well make the most of it."

Doom crept up her spine, and she tried her best to ignore it.
At least William didn't put her in danger of thinking that she was more than a body. A toy to play with. To gratify yourself on.

She'd never truly left this house, her profession behind. Keeping her had just turned more expensive.

There was no other way but to accept it. She would never get away. She would never be free. Of any man, telling her what to do, hurting her, bend her until she finally, and truly snapped.

She felt as if she was already beyond repair.
The most horrible part of it was that she couldn't forget that night. How it fooled her into tasting freedom, which only turned out to be the taste of her own blood.

That still, after all the pain it caused- she could not regret it. And it made her unsure if she hated Alastor more, or herself.

"I don't believe you," Esther shot back, a hand on Catherine's knee now, "Alastor has been good to you. You know as well as I that it's not common. You won't leave, just to be treated worse."

"You know nothing," Catherine spat. Esther cringed away in shock, and Catherine had half a mind to feel guilty over it.

She wondered if she should show Esther her neck, right in front of all these cheaply painted women and all the fools who paid for it. To show her, how little of an idea she had. How wrong she was. How cruel he really was.
Paint a picture of his true self right between the greens and blues of her bruised neck, adorned with a bitemark not healing over fast enough.

Maybe that would show her. How he consumed her, until there was nothing left but an empty shell.

Before she could decide, Dirk finally made his reappearance, almost bowing down to place her long awaited drink in front of her.

He muttered some words she didn't listen to- she hardly enjoyed his sucking up anymore.

As he left, she sighed, picking up the glass with steadier hands than she anticipated, her lips touching the cheap whiskey that still somehow reminded her of his desperate kisses, before knocking her head back in a harsh, rhytmic motion.

No ice clirred as she put the glass back down, and only then realized that this was the reason Esther looked so shocked in that moment.

The gears in her head visibly turned, until she realized how changed her old friend truly was. What had to have happened, to make Catherine throw all her previous likes and dislikes, her very morals, out of the window.

Understanding clouded her eyes, then pity.

"Oh Cathy, honey," Esther said softly, "I am so sorry."

She stared at the table, eyes burning dangerously, the current of her emotions and mistakes threatening to carry her away, the little control she had over herself dwindling, spiraling out of reach.

"It's my fault," she choked out, "I shouldn't have let him close. I should've never struck this deal. There's no saving me now. I can only control the damage I let him cause already. And if that means to be a sparkling whore, so be it."

Suddenly, Esther grabbed her. As she pulled at her, Catherine was afraid the shawl would shift, and the ruse would be over after all.

If it did, Esther didn't utter a word about it, and just stared at her so intensely she thought she might faint.
Or, fight back.

"Listen to me, Cathy," she pressed, "I understand you're hurt. But running off with some rich man that couldn't care less about you won't solve anything. If you can't admit your feelings to yourself, then yes- there's no saving you."

"Feelings," Catherine repeated hoarsely.
"You've fallen for him," she stated, "Alastor. And believe me, it does not matter how far you run- if you don't confront yourself, you'll be miserable for the rest of your life."

She wanted to shout at Esther, mock her words, how false they were- instead, she felt herself deflate as she listened, unable to fight any of it.

Unable to fight the fact that Esther's words burned like acid through her body. The emptiness that told her she couldn't be entirely wrong.

"I would rather die," she whispered, "You don't know how he is. What he-"

"Enough," Esther barked, staring at her in utter disbelief, "What's become of you? You valued truthfulness, kindness over anything else, and now you manipulate, scheme your way through life, pointing fingers and throwing around empty accusations and threats. All because you can't admit that you're in love with someone you cannot have."

Catherine felt herself grow angry, for no reason but the fact that she was tired of losing conversations. The simple fact told her exactly how many wrong turns she'd taken.

Maybe Esther wasn't conpletely wrong. Maybe Catherine wasn't completely wrong. Maybe there was a middle, but it wasn't good enough anymore. Both wanted to speak, but not to listen.

"I can't tell," she said solemly, arrogantly, "If it's jealousy or stupidity that lets you think you can talk to me like that."

Her friend was right. What had become of her?

Esther huffed, and Catherine couldn't tell if it sounded offended or if she'd simply given up on her.
"A friend. I'm talking to you as a friend."

Catherine closed her eyes, her chest burning as she realized she couldn't let it go. She had to snap back, at all costs, no matter how stupid it was.

Nothing was real anymore. She wasn't real anymore, just as Esther had alluded to.

Sometimes, I feel like you and I are cut from the same cloth.

"If you were really my friend," Catherine sneered, not sure if she even wanted to, "You would understand. All I do, it's about survival."

"No, it's not," Esther replied coldly, "It's about comfort. Nothing more."

The path ahead was darker than Catherine realized. Like an unspoken point of no return, like something had so gradually shifted inside her that she couldn't find it in herself to admit defeat, or wrongdoing, or ask for forgiveness.

She felt numb as she accepted it.

Then, she rose, adjusting the shawl around her neck once more, even though she felt like it didn't matter.
Esther was willfully blind. She could do without a friend like that.

She would do it all on her own.
"Fine," she spoke up, her voice wavering dangerously, "I don't need to listen to this."

Esther stood up, too.
"You should, Cathy, I'm just-"

She held her hand up, motioning for Esther to stop speaking. Miraculously, it worked.
Power. Dynamics shifting. Catherine not willing to hear it anymore. Any of it. From any of them.

"Don't say you do it because you care," she hissed, "If that were the case, you would've listened when you had the chance."

"The chance," Esther repeated, dumbfounded, "Cathy, you're going mad. And I feel like I can't stop you."

"Then don't," she replied coldly, "Noones asking you to. And it's Catherine. Always was."

And then, she turned on her heels and left. Slowly, just to give Esther a chance to apologize, which she didn't take. Instead, she just kept standing there, a look of shock and confusion on her face.

It made no matter. People that doubted her at every turn would only slow her down.

As she carefully took one step after the other, and once again felt eyes on her, this time more judgmental, more worried. Dangerous knowledge settled in.

This truly was the point of no return. From here on out, she had to start over, from the very bottom- and this time, there was noone who would stand by her. Fight her way back up, with nails and teeth, with too many hurdles to count.

As she left Dirk's, her emotions finally overcame her, and she had to hold onto the disgusting wall, muffling a sob behind her hand.

She wasn't sure if she had the strength. But what she had, was no choice in the matter.

She wouldn't let Alastor take her down so easily. She would find a way to fight back, to rise above the situation, take revenge, maybe. All alone, if necessary. If life had taught her anything, she didn't need anybody else.

Catherine would succeed, even if it was the last thing she would do.

Chapter Text

It wasn't his fault. The mistakes, the dampened judgement. None of it would've had the chance to ever happen.
If it wasn't for her.

Alastor had to repeat this statement over and over, or he would've fallen off the deep end days ago.

A week, almost two, was not enough to live down the shame. The truth that even he could not have it both.
To be led by feelings, and still be calculated, on top of things above all else.

He'd never been more uncomfortable in all his life.

Now, he had to go out of his way to fix a situation he refused to feel responsible for. And waited too long to rectify. That much he could admit.

One lonely funeral later, he was back in costume. For the first time in ages, the sheer sound people made seemed exhausting. To pretend seemed entirely too much. But alas, he'd hidden long enough. Longer than he should've allowed himself to.

He made his way through people, who moved in such a way it had the chance to push them, pull them by their hair, out of his way.

He was too serious. Too aggressive. Not like himself at all, while his mind raced and raced, trying to come up with clever quips, some way to turn the situation around, to make Catherine feel guilty, uncomfortable, whatever it took so the plan could continue.

He would not stop. He would not give up. One could be mad at the fact that this would certainly... overcomplicate things, but to give up now would be even more of a waste of time.

His spine straightened, and at least some semblance of his usual countenance returned slowly.

A minor setback. So he'd gotten carried away a little, and she'd preyed upon his moment of weakness, as expected of someone he'd taught. So what. In truth, it was just another way to reach his goal. The worst had happened, and while she would only get entangled further into feelings, he'd already had himself figured out. He was already devoid of any detachments that could harm him now, thanks to his mother's death.

And soon, he could finally do the only thing he wanted from her. To see her writhe in pain, choke on her tears, her own blood, as he slowly drained the life out of her. Snapped her neck afterwards, for good measure. It would all be worth it soon.

He just had to convince her. Of what, he didn't know yet. This was, after all, certainly new territory for him. But not impossible to navigate.

Alastor sat down, exchanged pleasantries as usal. The club was full, thanks to him of course, having provided the gem that was Catherine, to grace their halls every other week.

It was one of the earliest deals he'd struck, to further her career. Soon, he had to let it die out, in pursuit of higher, more prestigious engagements. Hopefully, it would fill her head with such vanity that she was inclined to forget about this horrid, current affair.

He smiled at their compliments regardless, fighting to keep a sour expression off his face every time her name was mentioned.

He knew how wonderful she was. After all, it was all his doing. And he didn't quite feel like hearing about it yet.

As the stage was rustling in anticipation, the conversation died down, luckily.

Alastors lips pursed at the cloud of dust emerging from the red, heavy curtains, deciding to quicken the process of quitting this place for Catherine for good, and was reminded to keep his face in check as Catherine emerged, making the dust seem less apparent.

The moment she did, he truly hated himself. It was only her he hated more.

He could not help his breath catching at her sight, the very image of stardom, feigned innocence, just as he'd wanted it. There was still an edge to her, a sadness that simply begged to be explored. Oh, exploration. Images emerged, of that wrong, wrong night, where he lost himself fully in the feel if her skin, her eyes so large, desperate, scared even, the taste of her lips, her blood, and the utter loss of his perceived self he'd experienced he couldn't entirely loathe- why, it was all the things he didn't want to think about.

As if he could think about anything else. And that, above all else, above his weakness, above his pathetic need for comfort, had made those neverending days inbetween certain hell.

He kept his eyes on her, like a bratty child, trying to prove a point, his blood boiling.

Well, if it was childish, he would grow out of it quickly, he decided- it was not like he'd much experience of being a child anyways.

Memories emerged again, this time of touch, not carnal, but comforting, and how strange it had felt, to finally, for once, after all this time, lean into it.

He feared it had ruined him. How does one come back from such a mistake as this?

How does one forget something that grabbed you tenderly with any regard for your quick, sinful life?

He had to come back from it. Quicken his pace, turn it all around, so it could all be over. End like it had always been planned.
With her insides smeared across the floor.

She didn't see him. She didn't make eye contact once, acknowledge him, see him in any way. She received her applause, bowed deeply, graciously, and disappeared again, all while he forced his mind to repeat itself over and over, think of the possibilities of this overdue murder, all while entirely forgetting to map out a plan about what came next.
His feet still carried him backstage, in a manner that might be entirely too confident- which he would never admit, of course.

There was a way to fix this, surely. He would be able to tell, from the way she reacted alone. He lingered for a moment, right at the door to her dressing room. Of course, he couldn't wait too long, to not put her into too much of a compromising situation. Still, he opened the door without knocking. Of course, noone stopped him.

To everyone, she was his. And she better care to remember.

She must've heard the door open, but didn't flinch or react in any way. He closed it, suddenly hit with the fact that they were now breathing the same air, like he was a desperate fan.

He didn't stagger back, even though he wanted to. No weakness. No display of feeling, in any shape or form.
Catherine was in the process of combing her hair out. To go home, surely. He knew exactly when she realized he entered, just by the way her movement stuttered. Then, she went over her hair one last time before putting down the brush calmly.

Which was surprising, considering how aggressively she turned around next, her eyes full of utter, undeniable hatred.
"How dare you," she spat, "Just showing up here, unannounced?"

It wasn't like him to search for words; it turned out, there was no need.

He had just enough to step away and duck as a glass whirred right past him, shattering into a thousand pieces.
He raised his hands to a calming gesture as she already grabbed the next best thing to throw his way.

Catherine hesitated the smallest moment, her eyes widening, and he wondered what exactly made her stagger.
He needed to get a hold of himself.

"Get out," she rasped.
"I can see I must've hurt your feelings," he observed, and Catherine rolled her eyes.

In any other scenario, this fact would've amused him. No matter how, it was a power dynamic that was, in its simplest form, hilarious.

Now, it filled him with a sense of doom. It seemed he had to start all over. And he wasn't sure how capable he felt of that in this very moment.

He liked her feral. But it wasn't about likes or dislikes anymore, and if he allowed himself to think that way, well then- then he would make the same mistake over and over, with no hope of ever achieving the actual goal.

A pretty distraction. A distraction nonetheless. And there was no chance that after years of being above those things, he would let himself get entagled now. He expected himself to be better than to answer to physical whims, even though the fact that he'd even responded to it should make him uneasy.

"Get out," she repeated.

He stood his ground, but didn't yet close in on her, as if she was an animal, easily spooked.

"Now, now," he responded, "That's no way to welcome back a weary traveller. Especially while not knowing if my appearance is of private, or professional nature."

Letting her know who was holding her leash. Her eyes burned into him, upset at the remembrance of the still very apparent power dynamic.

Her hands moved, and he readied himself to step out of the way once more, but instead of throwing more things or tantrums, Catherine slammed the object down the table before making her way towards him.

Suddenly, there was an accusatory finger pointed at him.
"Let me be clear," she hissed, "I do not care. Spit around your orders, and then leave me alone. I'm done being nice. I'm done being around you more than I need to."

"That was you being nice," he chuckled, and realized that even he should sometimes hold his tongue.

She whirled away, or at least tried to before he got a hold of her.

For a moment, there was fear in her eyes, and he had half a mind to just hold her tighter, and push her up against the wall, glass shards crunching under their weight.

Tell me you want me.

He wanted to pull at his skin, rip his own hair out. It was unbearable. The thoughts, images. The fact that he had never, ever cared for any carnal adventures, just for her to look at him with those big doe eyes, making him forget all about it. Making him realize that the only thing ever missing was the satisfaction, the desire to know. To be known. The same cloth.

He feared it was costing him his sanity, and his self esteem along with it.

She recovered surprisingly quickly, not even trying to fight him and instead, took another step closer.

"You think you have some kind of moral highground," she mumbled, "That you treated me better, like a person, not a whore. Well Alastor, you did. And you can't undo that."

Her voice wavered and he was torn, between the giddy need to see her break down, see tears stream down her face, and the realization that he of all people had to resort to pity.
To grovelling.

As if his mistake didn't sting hard enough already. As if it was a good idea to lower himself more, to cater to her, all while trying his very best to keep it together.

All while he knew his only reason for the prolonged absence was that he didn't dare face her. That he was afraid to do so, of what it would do to him.

Tell me you want me.

"The funeral-"
She interrupted him, her voice dropping, cold and eerily like his own.
"Well, treat me like a whore, get treated like a customer," she said, "I advise you to use your last 'favor' sooner rather than later."

She stepped even closer, into his space, and he felt his body stiffen, his head telling him an assortment of things that all contradicted each other.

"Because I swear to you," she whispered, her breath on his face, "I will make every day, month, year, however long you decide to string me along a living hell. I will oppose you. I will fight you. I will humiliate you. I will slip through every gap you leave me. You don't get to discard me like a plaything and turn around like nothing happened. It happened. I feel it in my body, and I won't let you forget."

Excitement rushed through him. Everything else was in shambles, but the hunt was still on.

One had to stay positive. Even if there was grovelling to be done.

Alastor reached out, touching her cheek softly, quickly.
She didn't lash out. It appeared she'd blown off all her steam, and now looked simply too tired to fight him.

"I didn't forget," he muttered, and she desperately fought her face softening.

"I am simply at my wit's end," he continued- it wasn't even a lie. Just a watered-down version of the truth. "Of how to continue. Things will have to change. I agree."

She shook her head, and as she snaked out of his touch, he let her.

"You could start by apologizing. Or letting me out of our deal," she suggested, and laughed, "But I know you'll never be capable of that."

Her sadness was palpable, and he knew if he allowed himself to, he would feel some kind of way about that.
Instead, he donned another mask, and laughed, too.

Catherine sat down again, head in her hands, small as if the weight of the world was resting on her.

He stepped closer.
"I can try to make it up to you in other ways," he suggested, "At least I can make an attempt."

Without thinking, he reached out again, his fingers sliding along her shoulders. Of course she tried to hide her reaction to it, letting him know that at least in some ways, they were struggling equally.

He slid along her heavy collier, surely hiding some mark or another. It almost made him smile, until she made him hesitate.

She was staring at him, her eyes full of secrets and a kind of strange, cocky self-confidence he wasn't used to, entirely opposing her beaten-down silhouette.

As if she was one step ahead of him.

The moment was gone as quickly as it came, and while it made him uneasy, he chose to drop it.

What chance did she have to surprise him anymore anyways? She would not stab him to death, that was certain.

He wanted to grab the heavy necklace and pull back, do something rash and live with the consequences.
What a waste that would be.

So, another stalemate. Disappointing.

At least they agreed on something: there was no reason to drag out this sharade any longer than was needed. The deal would end, and sometime soon, too.

Catherine needed to die. Sooner, rather than later.

Chapter Text

August 1932.

The heat of the season clung to Catherine in a way that made it hard to breathe. Everything around her seemed to keep sticking to her desperately, if it was words, actions, or her most inner thoughts.

And of course, there was the ever-building nervousness.

She wondered if that's how Alastor felt, always. Like he was waiting for someone to fail him.

Lately, it felt like she was barely able to ever lower the strain on her that no one was at fault for but herself.

Catherine returned her attention to the escargot in front of her, hoping the crushing of some shells would ease her.
What a silly concept. Expensive food that didn't fill you at all. Snails. The good kind of french.

She had no room to complain. To find a restaurant in town, that wasn't frequented a lot, but was still fancy enough for someone like Mr. William Fern was a challenge.

A challenge he revelled in, of course. But that was beside the point.

Catherine watched him across the table, going on about London, his birthplace, the beauty and horridness of it, and his father, who seemed to own half of it and then some. Firms, department stores, art, artists, you name it.
Catherine hadn't listened for quite a while.

She'd lost the ability to feel guilty about it; it was too bland, too high and mighty to feel sorry for anyone but herself.

She knew when to perk up, though- at any mention of the pictures, or any innuendo that could be interpreted as an invitation. He always circled back to any of those two.

Sometimes, both at the same time. Evidently.

William reached over the table, wrestling the pliers out of her hand to hold it.

While not outwardly violent, his disregard for her space got on her nerves. He treated it like it was his.

"Just imagine it," he beamed, "You and me, and all the other people, right on set. It is thrilling, let me tell you. Especially all the nooks and crannies you can hide in while not rolling."

He winked, and while she got nauseous, she tried her best to giggle, pulling her hand away sneakily to cover her mouth.

"I cannot wait," she lied, and at least for a moment, he bought it.

She couldn't count how many times she'd used this specific deception.

The last few months had been exhaustion. Of all the double lifes she'd lead, she never expected for it to turn out like this.

Her- for a lack of a better word- heartbreak that was to be endured, turned into hatred and venomous words, was hard to keep up with while your body screamed to drop the pretense. And morality was the least of her worries.

She made Alastor pay at every turn, and fought down anything that told her to finally stop. He took it, humbly by his standards, working endlessly to secure her better and better oppurtunities in life, surely the only way he knew how to make out without ever actually uttering an apology.

If she let herself, she'd actually feel sorry for him. Clearly, he lacked the conscience of a regular person, but not the awareness to know he had to earn any trust he wanted now.

She didn't care much for the fame, in itself. She just wanted to win. Once. That he admitted something first. That he had to work for something, with the chance to fail.

And most of all, she wanted him to make her cave. With his actions, and not because she desperately missed, craved, the way she felt that night. No matter how much she hated herself for it, there was no way around it: she'd truly felt alive, and she would do anything to feel that way again. Well, almost anything.

He had to stumble first. Until then, she would keep up with the sneering, the disrespect, just as she'd promised him.

William Fern was meant to be a distraction, a reminder that there was no need to endure, if she chose against it. A little thrill, that didn't compare to the peace and all-consuming intensity she'd felt, but kept her entertained.

She needed to know that she had other options. That she could leave, if she chose to do so. There was a void, like a snake eating its own tail, gnawing at her at all times. Even if she didn't want to some days, she knew that there was still something inherently wrong with Alastor. Even if he made her forget. The sensible thing was to choose the safe option.

The one that wouldn't make her betray all that she made herself believe in.

But the detective made her wait. She made Alastor wait, and Mr. William Fern. While she was stuck in an endless cycle of hatred, and obsession.

In an endless cycle of telling herself that what she wanted was not in fact what she needed.

Though, need was a difficult beast to tame these days.

"I'll be gone before the end of the year," he said, leaning forward, which made her back away a little on instinct. "The contract is back at my lodgings."

"Contract," she said, panicked, forgetting that movies usually had official paperwork.

She calmed down again, making herself lean forward while her heart was still beating.

"The end of the year," she said, feigning more interest than she wanted to, "I'm sure that until then, I'll have my things in order."

The detective would not have to search forever. The town wasn't endless. Alastor's patience was neither.

William smiled at her, albeit a bit forced.

"Or come with me now," he said, "Sign it. Drop the pretense."

Catherine squirmed.
"It's no pretense," she replied, "I just need to-"

William hit the table so loudly, it could be heard throughout the entire restaurant. Glasses, silverware clirred two tables over, and people were staring.

Catherine was tense as she looked around, wondering, fearing that there was anybody that knew her well enough to connect her with Alastor.

"Enough of that," he called out, not caring that he was about to make a scene, "I'm tired of your excuses, Cathy."
"I'm not-"

"Shut up," he interrupted, "You listen to me. I give you this oppurtunity. Take it. If you know what's good for you."

While everybody stared, noone felt inclined to help. Like a deer in headlights, she stared at his face, which she usually considered handsome.

Not at this moment. It was disfigured by his anger, his thin mustache contorting, convulsing like half-dead roadkill.

"If I know what's good for me," she repeated solemly, intent on playing up her fear, "You're scaring me, William."

"Well, be scared," he snapped back, never lowering his voice, "I'm done with your games. It was fun while it lasted, but my patience runs thin. It's time to pay up."

Without thinking, she laughed. Clearly, she was out of any self-preservation skills, even though she loved nothing more than to go on and on about survival.
She was a sham.

This time when he hit the table, it had enough force to roll an empty shell right off the table. At least she was flinching now.

"I didn't agree to anything," she argued, "I'm not playing games. I'll take my time, and let you know how I've decided when I have done so."

People were still staring, and she was starting to get agitated. She needed to go. This was not how this was supposed to happen. She was reminded of that night so long ago, at the Orpheus. The two bickering people that were not married, an assumption that had made Alastor laugh at her.

She would win this fight. That's what he'd said, correct?

His smile felt nightmarish to her.

"I don't like being teased," he said, "You can run your mouth, but you and I both know what you promised. Or did you think some empty words and half-assed touches would keep me waiting?"

Her chest tightened. While William was easier to deal with, she'd forgotten what it felt like.
To be just some sort of prey.

"A cheap night," she shot back, "After all this time, that's all you look for?"

He rolled his eyes before grabbing her arm, pulling her over the table without any regard for her clothes, or skin. Ironic, really.

"You're a smart girl," he sneered, "You know how this goes. Be grateful I haven't lost interest. It is now or never, Cathy. Get whatever you're conspiring over with, or get left in the mud."

Her eyes shot towards a knife, and before she could stop herself, she contemplated driving it into his other hand. That ought to make him let go. That ought to make her feel better.

But, she managed to compose herself despite the horrid memories flooding back up inside her like bile in her throat.

A hand on the small of her back. She wished, tried to will it into existence, but all she could feel were still the same old stares.

She bit her tongue, doing her best to look down on the grip on her arm, disgusted, disappointed. Not showing any fear. It didn't seem to sway him anyways.

"Fine," she muttered, "I'm not done, so I fear we are at a pass. If you cannot wait, I won't sign anything. I won't give myself to you. Not like this."

William let go, and she rubbed her arm, hoping she would not bruise. She should've bolted immediately. But for some reason, she was stuck on this chair as he leaned back and took a sip of his drink before wiping his mouth.

Unrefined. Without any shame about it. How had she played along so well until now?

"That won't do," he decided, "If there's anything I hate, it's wasting my time. Especially in a dirty little town like this."

Her expression soured, and even though she felt his anger on her arm still, she couldn't keep quiet"

"If you think you've been wasting your time, you musn't have liked me that much."

His laugh was disgusting, and hard on the ears.
"You overestimate your worth," he replied coldly, "And there I thought you were a clever one. I don't have to 'like' you for what I was promised. I've just been courteous."

Her mouth formed a thin line, and a part of her wanted to jump over the table and scratch his eyes out.

She knew he was a pig. It was implied. To admit to it out loud- well, that was just bad manners. Even most men at Dirk's knew better.
But they weren't rich.

"I am clever," she retorted, "I know very well there's better options than running along with you without a second thought. People that know how to treat a lady."

She dug her nails into her arm, keeping any betraying thoughts at bay.

William looked down at her arrogantly, a superiority shining through that let her know just how little he thought of her.

"Maybe," he admitted, "In LA. Here, all you'll find is new money. Unreliable money. Unreliable men, that fear to lose it all again. Mixed in with all kind of... society. Your beau, or whatever he is, included. And now, you'll never make it farther out than his leash allows you to."

Catherine couldn't help but flinch. She tried to compose herself, straightening her spine, glaring at him with intense disgust.

She felt the need to defend Alastor, but it seemed only silly as William rolled his eyes again.

It would be silly. To lower herself more. To admit to it.

In one smooth motion, he got up, coming to a halt right in front of her. She didn't give him the satisfaction of a display of feelings, and didn't feel the need to stand up to meet his gaze. Her heart was thundering, yet she did her best to hide the shake rustling through her body.

William grabbed her chin. She stared up at him, not budging, not showing fear.

"A piece of advice," he mumbled softly, but it wasnt enough to fool her, "You would do good to change your mind, and come crawling back to me, begging for another chance."

Catherine felt hot and cold at the same time as he leaned down, continuing in a hushed voice for once.

"Because otherwise, you'll pay for slighting me," he told her under his breath, "I don't care if it takes rallying the whole city to a witchhunt, but I'll get my satisfaction."

Catherine was reminded of Theo, his situation, and his desperate advice she'd conviently forgotten.

She missed him so. But after what happened with Esther, she didn't dare to talk to him.

They were always a team before Catherine appeared on the scene. Who was she to get inbetween?

Even though there was nothing she needed more than a friend.

She took a shaky breath, wanting to yell, spit at him, but before she could, he patted her cheek like you would a child's. As if he wasn't threatening her into submission.

"Then, you'll also find that men seldom like to share," William hissed, a knowing smile playing around his lips, "Good day, Cathy. Have fun seeing your house of cards crumble."

Thats how he left her, and she slumped down on a chair, allowing to let the tension, the panic carry her away for just a moment.

Catherine was sure she was getting dizzy. She reached for her ring finger, then decided against it. She wanted to laugh, cry, but instead reached for her glass and swallowed it down in one motion.

It had a chip, thanks to William's outburst. She set it down carefully even though she wished she could just slam it down.

Throw it after him. But no. That shouldn't become habit.
She willed herself to stand up, no matter her shaky legs, no matter how much she wanted to topple over and retch, empty her body until there was nothing left to weigh her down.

Her ears were ringing as she manged to smile, nod at the other guests and take small, unsure steps out of the restaurant, enough to be safe out of the way.

She held against the wall, breathing heavily as her mind raced, and she tried not to cry.

She was done for. The threat had been clear.

Catherine would go down, be swallowed by her own ambition, her attempt at freedom, and everybody would be able to see.
He would know.

This time, she could not stop the panicked yelp escaping her.

This wasn't happening. She'd just gotten the upper hand, and managed her feelings well enough, she couldn't fail now.

She wasn't allowed to fail now.

As she tried to take deep breaths, to piece her mind back together while fear kept ripping it apart, she realized that she was all alone. Noone would come to save her.
Not even God.

She thought of what Theo had told her so long ago. She thought of what Esther had accused her of, and her horrid reaction.

She'd pushed them all away, thinking she could handle it all by herself, that she didn't need anyone.

Now, there was nobody left. Except.

In a haze, she managed to flag down a taxi. She managed to make some conversation about how her night was going, stacking lies on each other without bother.

She muttered an adress, numb to her own stupidity.
Not wishing the panic back, but wishing for the numbness to go away even more.

Maybe the house would be empty. Maybe this lapse in judgement wouldn't have consequences.

As if it didn't feel like she was finally getting punished for her sins.

Catherine saw light in the windows, knowing it was too late anyways.
Why not go all in?

Now, she was living on borrowed time anyways.

Hearing her own knock at least helped to get some sense back into her.

Esther, she repeated to herself over and over. He didn't know of their friendship crumbling yet. It was a perfectly valid explanation as to why she was so disshevelled, and right now, she didn't care much about the fact that he would think her reaction was silly.

She stopped breathing as he opened the door. She would never quite get over him in... a more casual demeanor.

For a moment, Alastor just stared at her, admittedly a little befuddled.

"Are you finally coming to your senses," he wondered, head tilted, eyes narrowed playfully, "Or losing them?"

Catherine wanted to cry. At how everything was crumbling, and how much she hated the fact that his snark actually calmed her down enough to speak. That all she wanted was to forget it all for a moment, no matter the cost.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," she stated, "This doesn't change anything."

He raised his brows, a flicker of uncertainty flashing in his eyes.
She bolted past him.

"Welcome to my home," he chuckled as she looked around, helpless and lost, all out of options.

She hadn't gotten far, she realized, as she whirled around to see him standing not too far from her, leaned against the now closed door.

Her chest heaved, up and down, up and down. She wanted to start illuminating her little white lie, her fight with Esther, but her mouth went dry as soon as she opened it.

She couldn't tell if his face had softened or not, and it made her nervous. It made her want to tell the truth.

But, that hadn't been an option for a long time now. She was too entangled, too close to the edge, to falling down, and it wasn't like he hadn't played a part in getting her into this exact spot.

Taught her how to be a good liar after all this time.

She wished she could blame him, and only him. She wished she could know what he was thinking. What he wanted her to do. What he wanted to do.

Frustratingly, he stayed silent, watching her every nervous twitch.

"This doesn't mean anything," she repeated like a broken record, "It doesn't change anything."

"You keep saying so, dearest Catherine," he said, and she wanted to throw herself onto the floor at the sound of her proper, real name. The way he used it without question. Always had. "I'm not sure I understand what you're insinuating."

The way the corners of his mouth curled upwards told her otherwise. He just wanted her to admit it. To beg him.

She sighed, deciding she was too tired for pride. What difference did it make? Let him think he'd succeeded over her. Let him win this time.

Anything, to make William Fern's threats seem a million miles away. To feel something good, for a change. To fool herself into thinking all this would have a happy ending.

"Kiss me," she breathed, "Come here and kiss me again, please."

His reaction seemed to slow down for just her eyes.

Alastor turned his head to the side. He looked down. A muscle in his jaws tensed. He looked up again, searching her face for any sign of trickery, and finding none.

"Please," she said again, any prior resolve leaving her body, both of them knowing that he could hardly resist her pleading.

He pushed himself away from the door, and stopped in his tracks immediately after. She was about to be sick.
Alastor stared down at the floor, maybe unsure, or concerned, or maybe in full control after all.
It didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

"Tell me you want me," he muttered, repeating her own words back at her.

She wanted to be mad, tell him to quit the powerplay when he'd already won, go home, tell him about William Fern with all the smugness she could muster, what her mother would think, the detective in posession of the key she stole from him, or remind him that it didn't mean anything.
That he didn't mean anything.

Instead, she laughed. A real laugh, from so deep inside she didn't know where it could've possibly come from.

This couldn't be real. It was all absurd, a big ruse, a dream she would wake up from and tell Esther at work, who would laugh at her like she always did.

Before she could finish to inhale the cool, dry air meant to steady her, he'd already closed the space between them. He scooped her face into his hands with a softness that shattered her to pieces.

"Nevermind," he said, for some reason, before his lips crashed down on hers.

Like he didn't need to share.

Before long, his hands were on her, mapping out her frame as if to check if anything had changed. If the leash had loosened. Soft, yet desperate, like she was made of glass and yet could try to run at any second, and with every brush along her waist, every push against her hips, the reality of her situation steadily morphed into the back of her mind.

Where she was, physically, she could not tell. All she felt around her, all she could taste, smell, see around her, was him, and for some reason, it gave her a sense of peace that could- no, should- easily betray her.

But he was all around her, and the worry faded.
Fear faded.
Scheming faded. Pretense. The next step. Words, thoughts, time.
Consequence faded.
There was only now.
And she was alive like never before.

Chapter Text

"Strange," he said, "Your thundering heartbeat seems to calm me."

Catherine tried to stir, but was held back by the weight on her chest. Her sigh was a mixture of contentment and frustration.

"It isn't thundering," she asserted, "It is barely faster than normal."

She looked down, trying to place the hum vibrating along her skin, and was only met with unusually messy, dark hair and the hint of a profile.

"I was wondering," he said casually, "If you still have my gift."

She almost jumped at the mention of the gun currently residing in her nightstand, and regretted her carelessness as he chuckled.

"There it is," Alastor commented, content at last, a hand sliding along her ribcage. She could feel his wide smile, and she rolled her eyes in response before finally pushing herself into an upright position.

He let out a dissatisfied noise, lazily trying to pull her back down.

She didn't let him, taken aback by the sheer difference in interaction that didn't feel real at all. The pace they'd fallen into after her threats, her crawling back, into a new normal that didn't feel normal at all.

"If you don't want me to move," she scolded, "Maybe think twice before riling me up."

He looked up at her, his head resting on his hand, his elbow propping him up.

His look wasn't even suggestive. It was knowing.

Her face felt hot, and she had to look away.
He laughed, so outwardly unguarded it turned her stomach.
Where had she gone wrong? Or right? She didn't know anymore.

A truce. That's all it was. A truce that left her half-dressed, but only because none of them bothered to take the time to rip all their clothes off their body.

She swallowed, once again hit with the strangeness of it all.

His hands wandered along the borders of where fabric met skin, and she hated how much she liked it.
How easy it was to just believe. To keep going.

"Don't you worry," he told her, "I've made my peace with your disobedience."

His tone was aloof, half-serious, half-joking. One could really believe he'd finally let his guard down.
A part of her really wanted to. The other was too distrusting.

It would've been easy with any other man.

"Disobedient," she wondered aloud, finally gaining enough courage to look back at him, "Do you mean to tell me you're dissatisfied with my performance?"

He smiled at her, fully understanding that she was trying to bait him.

"Not at all," he replied, and she was in awe, wholly uncomfortable at the way he understood her wordlessly, "How did it feel, to be broadcasted?"

Catherine took a moment to think.
It had been daunting. To be heard, but not seen, ironically. She ought to have been more nervous, to stand in a small, cramped space, with some musicians and a microphone.
But she hadn't. Because on the other side, there was him, smiling at her, and without effort, she'd been able to fall right back into the role.
Into what people wanted to hear.

But that was entirely too intimate, too much to tell him, so she simply replied, "Good. It felt good."

He raised his brow in amusement.
"That's all?"

"I'm sorry," she said innocently- while not being innocent at all, "Did you expect more praise? And there I thought I already thanked you sufficiently."

A yelp escaped her lips as he pulled her down by the hips. And just like that, his face was above hers, his playful expression quickly turning more serious, without much she could do about it.

Her mood shifted, too. It didn't take much, unfortunately, to turn her into liquid, a girl helplessly begging for more attention.

She should be ashamed of herself. But for that, she was several months too late.

"Don't do this," he pleaded, "Make me think it's transactional for you."

For a moment, she felt something akin to pity. It reminded her of men coming to Dirk's, trying so hard to pretend they were in some way different to other customers.

Then she looked up at him, his expression almost enough to fool her into believing it to be sincere.

He was hiding horrible things, she reminded herself. This was all a game, and someone had to come out on top.
Just because they were acting out a stalemate didn't mean it was over.

No matter how convincing it was.

"Where has your sense of humor gone," she teased, "I hardly recognize you."

It was a lie. Lately, she felt like he was an open book.
Only she refused to read more than a couple pages at a time.

She refused to be enthralled. As best as she could, anyways. Only facts would help her, would be sufficient to make her act.

Until then, what harm was it to play some make-believe?

"Believe me," he muttered, "I hardly recognize myself."

As he kissed her neck, it was easy to forget. The everlooming threat of William Fern. Whatever gang involvement he was hiding.

How hard it would be to let go, after all this time.
But it wasn't time yet. There was nothing speaking against enjoying it now.

And she enjoyed his touch more than was normal. For a sane person, at least. She wasn't sure. It wasn't like she'd ever enjoyed anybody's touch until now.

So she let him kiss her, softly run his hands along her skin while the midday sun illuminated them. Fool herself into thinking that it meant that she was safe.

That him touching her only now, and not two, three years ago made it mean something. Just for a moment.
Just for some peace of mind.

He sighed against her skin, wandering deeper down, as if he was shedding himself of pressure, tension, thoughts.
Unrecognizable, truly. To think that after all, he answered to all the calls regular men would.

"I have a request," he muttered.

Before she could scold him, or beg him to continue downwards instead of talking her into something at her most vulnerable, her phone started to ring at the other end of her apartment.

She sat up quickly, before he had a chance to notice her heartrate spiking.

A dissatisfied noise escaped his throat, once more almost enough to fool her.

"One moment," she said, adjusting the sorry remainder of her clothing.

She hurried to the phone. Her hands were shaking before she picked up, and she didn't know why.

There was a whole hallway between them now. There was nothing to worry about.

"Hello," she squeaked, coughing to adjust her voice into a more confident tone, "Who am I speaking to?"

"Good day, ma'am," the private detective's voice greeted, "I am calling to inform you that I've found what the key belongs to."

Her exhale emptied her lungs uncomfortably. She kept breathing, shallowly, even though a gasp for air would've been the right call.
"And?"

"Well, I don't believe you have to worry about infidelity," the detective said, "Unless your husband's meeting ladies at a graveyard."
Her vision went blurry.

"Did you check it," she asked, panicked.

"No," he replied, "I only found out the adress. You were quite adamant about me not lurking further."

She sighed, too relieved for a situation as this. Dread filled her at the tone of the detective's voice. At the implication.
"Good. Thank you."

"You can come by this week," the detective continued, "Pick the key and the adress up. Unless you want me to investigate after all."

"No, that will be sufficient," she cut in, barely able to keep her voice under control, "I'll come by."

"Very well," he replied, and she hoped she imagined the suspicion in his voice, "Until then."

Before she could mutter another pathetic 'thank you', he'd hung up.

Catherine was sure she would faint. She hung up the phone, her ears ringing just as the phone had done before.
A graveyard. What could someone be possibly hiding at a graveyard?

She wished she could confide in Esther, anyone, that could tell her that this was a regular occurence if one was in touch with gangs, or that this was all a great, elaborate joke, and all one could hide there was a grave.
A dead father, perhaps. That might be it.

That had to be it. But for some reason, she didn't believe it, and her prior sense of dread buried itself so deep into her stomach, she got nauseous.

The voice behind her shouldnt have surprised her. It did anyway.

"Who called to make you look so distraught," Alastor asked, curious, yet almost worried, leaning against a doorframe so relaxed, it looked rehearsed.

Fully clothed. Oh well. She didn't have it in her to hide her disappointment, even though it was entirely misplaced.
If only he knew. How close she was to exposing him. Whatever she would expose.

There was still time to turn around. To go back to William Fern. Or just leave on her own accord.
Maybe she'd dug too deep.

"It's nothing," she assured him.

He walked up to her, a faint smile on his face as he cupped her cheek.
"You're white as a ghost."

She wanted to lean into it. She wanted to run.

Instead, she donned her best worried face. "It's just Theo," she lied, "I'm still-"

She looked down, pretending to be too emotional to speak, sneakily looking up at him a few seconds later, hoping he'd bought it.
She couldn't tell. It scared her to death.

"Esther," he guessed gravely, "It's still giving you trouble."
Her lie had worked perfectly before. Maybe it would this time, too.

She nodded, not trusting herself enough to speak.

"Say the word, and I'll shut this business down," he said, "I thought you liked to remind yourself of what you left behind. But if it gives you satisfaction, Dirk and his company will be out by tomorrow."

She stared at him in shock, all while she didn't know what unsettled her more: the fact that it came so easily to him to carry out revenge for her if she wanted him to, that he thought that revenge was what she yearned for in the first place- or that he'd known that she'd visited Dirk's the entire time, and never mentioned it.

Another reminder. That he had his eyes and ears everywhere. That she couldn't run, or hide. At least not from him.

She was treading along dangerous paths. And if he wanted to or not, he made her remember that she was likely to lose her footing.

"No," she blurted out, "God, no."
It hurt, to realize how God had become a throwaway expression.

He scanned her, reading her to a pulp, and still seeming dissatisfied. Apparently not finding what he wanted.
Catherine let herself fall into him, and for a moment as he held her, it all disappeared.

She didn't have to find out. She could keep playing the same game, pretend some more, and wait until it swallowed her.

Enjoy this new sense of normalcy, sink her teeth into this unfamiliar comfort, as if it wouldn't bite back sometime soon.

She spoke up before he had a chance to revel in her weakness too much.
"You had a request."

She felt so naked against him, and not uncomfortable enough for the occasion.

A graveyard. Of all things, why did it have to be a graveyard?

"Right," he answered, searching his pockets before pulling out two tickets. "I was wondering if you had any plans for next weekend."

She held onto his waist, searching for stability where there was none.

"Another event you need me to join," she wondered, her voice more stable than she thought was possible.

"No," he replied, "No business. Just you and me."
She looked down at his hands, finally looking at what he was holding.

Tickets to a boatride. A show of her favourite singer.
She felt the need to cry, and she couldn't begin to understand the reason.

She imagined the fresh air, the lovely voice, and a night nothing short of a date. Away from it all.
Hardly comprehensible.

"I can say no," she observed.

"Yes," he agreed, suddenly bashful, "I just hope you give me the chance. To set it right. Widen our horizons, in regards to one another."

She looked at him, trying to find deceit, and utterly failing. He returned the look, with about the same amount of uncertainty.

Was he really self-concious? Or was this another game?

As if she had a choice but to play. And buy some much needed time.

Catherine looked down on him, letting him know she took in his clothes, his readiness to leave.

"Stay," she breathed, "Stay now, and I might think about it."

His discomfort would've given her relief, if it weren't for the impossible situation she had once more gotten herself into. As if it mattered now, how low she could force him.

Alastor took her face into his hands, still searching, still wondering.

For a moment, she felt his softness was enough to calm her. To cease her digging around once and for all, and simply take what was given, like a stray dog, just looking for some affection.

The same cloth. Violence. Loneliness.

His expression was once more a mystery. Full of longing, and regret at the same time. Something she couldn't quite grasp. A madness, almost, shining, sparkling in his eyes, that reflected her own desperation right back at her.
"If that's all it takes."

Chapter Text

November 1932.

One step at a time. One action, after the other.
And soon, it would all be over.

The weather was exactly cold enough to warrant thicker coats, which allowed a lot of space to hide things in.
The ship's horn honked, announcing the ship's departure, and Alastor looked over to the stern, and the steam slowly clouding the air.

The light against it almost gave it a sparkling quality, and in front of it all- Catherine, blonde locks, fur of her coat illuminated, her face kept in the dark, turned to the side, looking down the river.

She tried very hard not to look too pleased, too much like she was enjoying herself, and he loved every second of it.
She was perched over the rail, like a painting, and he stayed just where he was, a few feet away, able to close in at any time if only he chose to step away from his current engagement.

All while she lazily tried to ignore him, making a game out of receiving attention while giving none, a faint smile enough to realize that she was in fact listening to every single word spoken.

The rush he felt was incomporable.

And for a moment, he wondered if he would miss it. The excitement. The constant power struggle, equally flirtatious as annoying, the sheer intensity of it all.

He sighed, the vibration underneath him at last grounding him back in reality.

Maybe it would be strange, for a while. All the more reason to make tonight count.

To get all the satisfaction out of it he would ever need.
Enough blood. Enough fear. He would always have the image.

The conversation around him shifted into darker territory, but all he could watch was her face, fighting to stay in control.

He smiled, excusing himself before resolving to let her win for one last time.

He approached her, and her body turned towards her, open, blooming, before she ever met his gaze.

How could you not miss it, down the line? It was delightful, how her body betrayed her time and time again.

He wished all people away. For one purpose, or another.
"Did they already manage to bore you," she wondered.
One, good push. That's all it would take.

His eyes slid along the arch of her neck, porcellain white, all healed up, and for a moment, he craved to taste her again.
Her blood, her flesh, the sound she'd made.

Now, he held onto the rail too, almost dizzy in anticipation.
Only a few more hours. He would only have to miss out on the sounds, keep her silent enough so her voice would not carry over the water.

A shooting star, flaring up before drowning out in the watery abyss.

That was poetic enough, wasn't it? It was good enough. Had to be. At last.

"I should've known I can't turn my attention away from you," he casually replied, "There's no need to be jealous, you know."

She rolled her eyes, annoyed, playful, who was to tell?
It was a neverending joy, to watch her mystify herself. All the more reason to pry her open, find the truth underneath.
She watched his every movement carefully, all while trying to be nonchalant about it. He smiled to himself.

There was no shame to admit it. He would miss her. To have her around, to have her fight him for the silliest things, just to succumb when night struck.

He enjoyed her company in every way. There was no way around it.

All the more reason to be done with it.

"Noone of any importance, I assure you," he purred, "Professional or private."

Her eyes grew larger then, for the tiniest of moments, and he should've noticed, really thought about the strangeness, but it slipped his mind as he took in so many other things.

Was distracted by so many other things.
He'd gotten lazy. And unfortunately, he wasn't angry about it. Instead, he stepped closer, bewitched by the way her breath stuttered as his hand found its place on the small of her back.
"Shall we go for a walk around the deck?"

He knew that finally, he'd gotten her to not fear his touch, which was a hard feat, considering all she'd went through. All she'd done, not to be touched this way again.

Nonetheless, as he reached for her, she looked panicked.
He'd controlled his voice, his face in every way that mattered. His request was not suspicious, he knew as much.

Why then, did she look so alarmed?

Catherine's eyes, large again, darted around the deck, for what or whom, he had no idea.

"People of so little importance," she chuckled as her eyes kept wandering, "You dare to steal me away so early in the evening?"

He was taken aback by her reaction, and for a moment, he doubted himself.

She could not know, could she?

Surely, she'd doubted his morality, but he was under the impression that he'd sufficiently distracted her. His act was very believable, after all.

Especially because she wanted to believe it so desperately. That much he understood.

He felt the need to claw at his skin, but let it overpass him as he lifted her chin.

Alastor stroked a thumb across her cheek, hot under his touch.
Delicious.

"Do you mean to tell me that after all this time, you're scared to be alone with me," he wondered, her breath even more shallow than his, "When evidence suggests otherwise?"

Her face wavered along with her resolve. He was already sure to have worried about nothing, as she pried his hand off of her face.

She held onto it, looking down as if their intertwined hands would answer for her.

When she looked back up at him, her innocent look was too good to be true.

"It's just," she sighed, the batting of her lashes disgustingly rehearsed, "The show will start soon."

Paranoia quenched him. That's what you got, if you just waited too long for the perfect oppurtunity.
It was now or never.

He smiled at her brilliantly.
"Of course."

They made their way to the stage in silence, both chasing their own thoughts.

Slowly, she calmed down, after she looked around frantically some more.

He looked away just to frown.
This was not going as he'd planned.

He had been sure that she was sufficiently beguiled, that he'd done a great job at twisting her heart, her mind, her very being, to answer to his every call. Even after his mistake, which he'd now interpreted as a good call, since he thought her more desperate.

But that wasn't the truth, was it? Her weakness had come from herself, through her silly attachment to Esther finally crumbling down on her.

Not from his actions.

His mind was quick, and used to adjusting when things took a turn. Yet now, as he realized that he was not as in control as he'd believed himself to be, it started racing in a way that was positively horrible.

How nauseating.

His mind ran down every single of tonight's interaction, finding no fault, and realizing he had no mind to go further back. It was all so... foggy. All while he somehow find himself stuck on the silliest, most unremarkable memory of this evening: that someone had talked about the murders.

He hadn't been too cold, too cheery, he knew that. Yet now- he questioned his every move.

He hated it so much, it was almost enough to just reach for a knife right now.

For a moment of control amidst the chaos.

Maybe tonight was not the night, as much as he'd wanted it to be. Loose ends were no way to finalize anything, and maybe there was still some ground to cover in regards to her trust, and fully possessing it.

By now, the show had already started, and suddenly, she was all smiles, pressing up against him, shoulder to shoulder, as if she didn't notice yearning to be close to him.
For all he knew, it could be choreographed. And somehow, that thought left him seething.

Maybe that was it. Complete surrender of her body wasn't enough, how could he have been so silly? She needed to admit to it.

She needed to surrender her soul.

He shook his head, trying to let his thoughts fleet. It was barely working.

He could not remember the last time he'd been standing in his own way so much.

That was a lie. He certainly did. He would never be allowed to forget.
The same cloth.

She turned to him, her head so close to his ear, out of balance on her tiptoes.

He wanted to lunge at her. He did not.

"Are you quite alright," she asked, her concern so painfully real, he could've snapped her neck right then and there.
He did not.

"I might need some silence. Fresher air," he said, just to prove to himself that she was perfectly fine to follow him wherever he pleased, away from people, just to make her choose to miss her favourite singer performing in favor of tending to him.

He hardly recognized himself. Truly.

Of course, she followed him, and while his paranoia slowly ceased, he still felt out of sorts.

The band, the barely acceptable voice of the singer slowly faded into the background as they came to a stop near the stern.

Alastor looked down at the ever-turning wheel, wondering how horribly it would disfigure a body.

"I won't pry," Catherine spoke up, all attentiveness, which didn't feel as rewarding as it ought to have, "You hardly forgave me the last time I did."
"You're too good to be true."

She laughed, at him, at his words, he didn't know. He realized that he couldn't distract her without any touch giving away the weapon in his pocket, and he felt utterly foolish.

"Do you think it was a mistake," he asked before he thought it through, and was close to resolving to just throw her over. Reach for her throat and squeeze.
His hands shook.

This was not the end. How terrifying.

She had the audacity to look pained.
"I hardly know," she mumbled, looking up at him so hauntingly sincere, "It might be. I don't have it in me to think it is."

Emotions seldom overcame him in a way that made it hard to act. Yet in this moment, he felt them stuck in his throat, choking him senseless, and he wanted to yell, to cease his own foolishness- only if he'd known how.

He hummed, not able to voice any of it, a sense of doom settling into his chest as he remembered what he'd done the last few days. What he'd planned.
Unfortunately, it wasn't murder.

He didn't need to feel paranoid over her outplayimg him. He was playing himself just fine.

Of course, he was becoming his own enemy. He surpressed a sigh, a shudder, the need to rip her open, to pick her brain in truth.

Whatever she was hiding- she wouldn't for much longer.
Just a few more nights. He repeated it to himself, over and over, in hopes he would believe it.

All while everything around him, inside himself, suggested otherwise.

"Do you regret it," she asked, and for a moment, he'd forgotten what foolish words had left his mouth prior.
There was no answer that would make any sense. She stood there, still breathing, still breathtaking, while he stumbled over his plans like a schoolboy with nothing to hold onto. Except for her, of course.

It was all wrong.

"The Orpheus is holding a New Years Eve Gala," he told her instead, and her disappointment was palpable.
She leaned away from him, and it felt like a loss. His frustration knew no bounds as he wanted to grab her, pull her back, push her away- whatever it took.

He couldn't shake his own tension. It took every last bit of energy he had to appear relaxed.

All while he had to admit to himself that he never expected himself to go through with tonight's plans. That he'd changed them before even considering to let them ripe into fruition. He felt sick at the vile display of his own hypocrisy.

"So we change the subject," she sighed, "Alright then. What of it?"

He couldn't even feel joy over the fact that she gave up so easily, bent to his will by choice.

If two people bend, they were just a pair of crooked creatures. Twisted caricatures of two people pretenting.
It was all her fault. It had to be.

Otherwise, he'd go mad. If he wasn't halfway there already.
It made no matter, he concluded as he explained his surprise to her in great detail.

They wanted her to perform. He'd not rested, and secured this offer within days, instead of planning his next step as he ought to have.

His blood was boiling by the time he finished. Catherine's eyes were large, reflecting the glittering water back at him, all while trying so hard not to let euphoria carry her away.

And still- there was this hue of disappointment that told him how tired she was of being evaded. He could not help it.

It was the only thing left that gave him some sense of power.

Slowly, he felt himself settle again. There was still a favor to be cashed in. Besides, a boat ride was no proper ending for a story such as this. New Years, to end her her life inbetween one year and the other had more dramatic qualities, anyways.

The Orpheus would have more privacy. He would have more time, and maybe until then, his hard work would've truly paid off.

Of course he'd been right all along. This wasn't the right timing. New Year's was. There was nothing to worry about.
He was handling it just right.

Still, he could not shake it entirely. The feeling that he could not trust himself, when it came to her. That he was growing soft, or sentimental, or plain lazy.

That he was in imminent danger of betraying himself. He could not let that happen. No matter how tempting. No matter how many silly feelings he was forced to deal with.

Any misstep could have dire consequences. He'd lead this double life for so long, he'd forgotten that sometimes, a small mistake could cost you everything.

Alastor wished he could revel in the rush. But in reality, he was close to terrified.

Catherine took a deep breath, searching his face, scanning every inch of it. Maybe considering to claw it off.

"I suppose you want me to take this as an apology," she guessed, "For all that happened?"

Always the victim. How he hated her. For doing everything just right.

He reached for her, his hands shaking ever so slightly as his thumb brushed her throat, and he felt her swallow.

"Dearest Catherine," he said, "I want you to climb the stage you looked up to, and dreamed. Now that you have everything."

Maybe she looked alarmed. He couldn't tell.

A songbird with crushed pipes. What a pretty picture. One he made himself wait for time and time again.

He could not help but pull her closer, still somehow believing, wishing he could end her now, even if he knew it was a lie.

"Sing your song," he continued, hand twitching dangerously, while his touch was soft and sweet. He smiled at her.
"And don't you dare turning around."

Before the Underworld swallows you whole.

Chapter Text

New Years Eve, 1932.

Catherine's heart almost beat outside her chest, just looking at the still-closed stage from the other side while stage workers she hardly paid any mind to bustled around.
It almost felt magical, to stand on the opposite end, to be the one to step through, rather than wait for the curtain to open.

Especially because it was the Orpheus.

Don't look back.

She shivered for no reason that made any sense. At least it helped to remind herself.

That no matter what, her excitement could not run away with itself. She had to stay calm, collected, coherent.
Suddenly, she grew increasingly nervous. Her whole head felt jumbled, even though she'd tried so hard to keep everything in order.

Once more taking a page out of his book. Like second nature.

But it would all end soon, she was sure. She had to believe in it.

The New Year would be here within few hours, and then, it would all change.

A new chapter. A new her, if that's what it took.

She'd like it very much to go to church again. Without being afraid to burn on sight.

His skin on hers. His kisses. Hungry, yet soft, and all-consuming. His breath, intertwined with hers, almost musical.
Like it was one.

And always his eyes, on her at all times, watching, knowing, feeling, in possession of an openness that was so hauntingly easy to believe.

The stage manager saved her, telling her to be ready, before her mind could slip into even more dangerous territory.

For a moment, stage fright set in, her mind running down her list of songs and suddenly doubting every single choice she'd gotten to make.

All doubt vanished as the stage lights warmed her bones, and a smile appeared without much hassle, the all-too familiar rush going through her at the sound of applause.
Well, maybe she was vain after all.

She got through her set just fine, the big band elevating, supporting her in all the best ways.

It felt like intoxication, to know how good she sounded. To hear how well she was received.

For a moment, all her worries faded into the background. But of course, not for long.

In the back of of her mind, she felt him stare up at her. No matter how far he was, she always knew. She could feel his eyes on her.

Because it felt different from all the others. And without acknowledgement, she knew that he was aware, too.

What did it matter if they weren't able to stay away from one another, if nothing was able to keep them apart?

It took all she had to divert her mind once more.
Just a few more days. Just a few more days, then she would finally be free.

She would not question whether she wanted to or not. She would force herself wanting to be free. There was no time to change her mind. She wasn't allowed to, if there was any sane part of herself left. And that's what she needed to believe in, before it was too late.

A few days only had so many hours.

Every little joke, every quip inbetween songs was a hit. Catherine felt herself detach from it all, and had to realize that if there was any sanity left she held so dearly onto, it might be less than she hoped.

She questioned her choices, most importantly her last song, which she'd carefully chosen and not told anyone.

Not that there was anyone to tell except him. No one else was left.

She imagined his reaction before it had a chance to happen, and realized that every single theory would always be slightly off, as it always was.

Just a few more days. She could do this.

And for one last time, she felt like risking it.

To toy with the illusion of free will. And happy outcomes. A path she hadn't realized, maybe.

As applause seized, she took a deep breath. The bigband behind her started up again, her ears ringing along with the heavy blues sound.

One last time. The burns of having played with fire would've had the time to heal over when she was finally gone.
They would serve as a reminder.

Compared to what was sung, the Band almost sounded chipper. She'd always had a distaste for love songs, the state of eye-batting helplessness the song forced a woman to.

Maybe now, she understood. Because suddenly, the begging, sad text made so much sense.

Catherine sang about love now. Heartbreak. The all-shattering realization that the feeling had never been equal. That it left her begging, and sad, at mercy of the tide that were another's feelings.

And for a moment, it felt all so real.

As her feelings put her at risk of being swallowed whole, of breaking the untouchable stage presence she'd worked so hard for, an unknown kind of stupidity, of bravery washed over her.

She found Alastor in the crowd, even against the burning lights with no effort.

She looked down at him, her smile overshadowing the pain that was very much real in her eyes, which she knew only he could see.

For some reason, she let him. She decided to let him watch, to see her succumb to a silly, little song.

Not once did he look away. Not once did his gaze waver, or his face change as the song spoke through her, listing body parts that she was willing to give away.
That already belonged to him. What did it matter now? He knew, anyways. What shame Was there in admitting it now?

As the time for bowing came, she was sure her knees would collapse before she could make it off the stage. Catherine felt her strength returning as soon as he smiled at her.

She should hate it. How easy it was, to admit to something she refused to believe.

Even if it was play-pretend, as she hoped.

He was a liar, likely a criminal, and even more likely a monster, she had to remind herself as she smiled back.
A few more days. Then, she would finally have it in her heart to force herself into finally using that key.

It would get easier, when she finally brought herself to know what he was hiding.

But for now, she allowed herself to smile back, and for just a moment, believe in the look they shared and let people see. To believe that she could let it continue, and it would have no consequence but happiness.

Or at least no negative ones. But the key belonging to something hidden in a graveyard didn't let her wallow in the delusion.

That's why she couldn't put it off any longer. If she did, she might ignore it forever, just to keep living inside her dreamy, dangerous bubble. And no matter how much it would break her down the line, she knew he was capable for worse.

She would not stop. She would get out, start somewhere new, far away from him, and the thread he spun, so inviting that she was close to getting caught up willingly.

She didn't have the willpower, the resources to stay a girl singing love songs.

Esther had been right. It was about comfort.

Just as the applause seized, and she had to pry her eyes away from him, another smile close enough to the stage to see caught her attention against her will.

Finally, she looked away. And as she did, she realized two things:
You can get used to the brightness of stage lighting. Secondly, the person smiling at her was Mr. William Fern.
His smile felt grotesque. William stared at her, looking to his right once, letting her know he was well aware of who she was with.

As if it came as a surprise.

Panic squeezed her heart, and she forgot how to breathe as she continued to stare at him in horror for as long as she could before it got suspicious, always taking small breaks to look around the audience.

This could not be happening. She was so close, yet the look in William's eyes told her that time was running out quickly.

She wanted to yell, or cry, or strangle hin right where he stood. Instead, she bowed one last time, threw another panicked look at Alastor who luckily hadn't noticed the look of horror on her face, and made herself exit the stage as she already broke out into a cold sweat.

She held onto something, someone she didn't know, and snapped at the first person asking if she was quite alright.
How had she become so horrid?

Just a few more days. She needed a few more days to get everything in order. William Fern's plan for revenge had lain dormant for so long, so why now? He'd planned to be out of town sooner than this. Why wasn't he, then? Just to throw her off his scent? To make everything worse just because he could?

The realization that she'd never been safe almost knocked Catherine off her feet.

In a daze, she found her way to her dressing room, snapping at another poor soul that she didn't need any help.

She held onto the table in front of the mirror, panting, panicking.

Why was he here? What was his plan? And did she have any chance to stop it?

She looked at her own reflection, realizing she didn't have time for silly questions like that. Or self-pity.

So she swallowed her panic, the bile rising up in her throat.
That was what you got for procastinating. She could've already left the country, if it wasn't for her silly, dangerous attachment.

Catherine had to stop this. Of course, she didn't know how, a small, silly girl wedged between these two men, who were likely getting to know each other as she sat around panicking. She wasn't even sure why she was so very scared. The plan was to leave, anyways.

And yet, it had to be on her own terms. She would not allow any of these two to decide this for her. For once.
She had to persevere.

Her fingers curled into the wood as she stared herself down, her heart still beating outside her chest.

This wasn't the end. She still had some tricks up her sleeve.
She would hurry, and they would never meet. She would avoid all her failures crumbling down on her, even if it added new ones. She could still pretend she wasn't being punished for good reason.

There were ways to avoid it, and she would pay the price. No matter what it took. Seduction. Pretension. Lies.

Violence.

Chapter Text

Luckily, Alastor hadn't noticed enough to change his usual course of action too much. So, just as always, he met Catherine in front of her dressing room.

She surpressed the need to shudder, not trying to think too much about the fact that he hadn't entered. Trying not to hurl herself into his arms.

She smiled at him, fearing she looked utterly crazy. If he noticed, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, he reached out with his hand, lifting her chin while his thumb carressed her jawline ever so softly.

His nails scraped her skin for just a moment, and he looked down at her, wondering, "Well, then. Was it all you ever dreamed of?"

Her mind raced, knowing in her heart this was nothing but a nightmare. She couldn't tell how desperate he was from his expression alone. She couldn't possibly deter him long enough, or drag him back into the dressing room.

It raised questions she could not answer. They both were aware of the line, of how needy they could act, which could never be crossed. Especially not on a day as this.

"Yes," she lied, badly- that much she knew.

As his brows furrowed, ready to question her, she felt the need to add. Already defending herself, as if she hadn't learned anything.
"It's just too much to put into words."

His hand disappeared from her face as doubt clouded his eyes.
"Are you quite alright?"

Only then did she notice her shortness of breath. She was white as a ghost, she imagined.

For some reason, she opted for honesty.
"No," she breathed, gasped almost, "We need to leave."

Alastor tilted his head to the side, visibly confused and taken aback, and the way he scanned her made her feel sick.

"That's just silly," he chuckled, uncertainty apparent in the tone, "We need to celebrate your victory, don't we?"

Catherine shook her head violently. She knew she was behaving highly suspicious, and hoped he would grant her the same grace she did time and time again.

His hand found its way back to her, this time on the small of her back, pulling her closer, and also trying to slowly lead her back out.

"No," she affirmed, "Let's just leave. I beg you."

His hand curled, and it send shivers down her spine.
He would not budge. She had no way to convince him without incriminating herself further.

"Whatever you're worrying about," he said, "There's no need. Noone will hurt you. Not when I am around."

She wanted to cry. His comforting words, no matter how true they were, cut her deeply.

But he will. Both of us,she tought, and felt insane doing so.

Nothing could. Not him. And it was her who would have to shoulder the consequences.

Maybe she deserved it, and for a moment, she let him lead her, finding comfort in the fact she could stay indecisive.

It took her to long to fight back, putting her heels so deep into the ground she feared she would leave a mark.

She looked around, panicked, the feeling elevating as she realized William was nowhere to be seen.

She couldn't tell if Alastor was annoyed or concerned as he pulled her closer in the crowd.
"Seriously, what's the matter with you?"

"I can't tell you," she replied, "Not here."

His eyes narrowed, and finally, at least for a moment, she was afraid of him.
"What did you do?"

In the corner of her eye, William Fern reappeared, almost as if out of thin air.

She was sure she would faint before she grabbed Alastor by the arm, hating that it grounded her.

"I will explain it, I swear," she said in a hushed, desperate voice, "But we need to go now. If you have any tenderness in your heart for me, let's leave. I'll explain everything, I just-"

She interrupted herself, pulling Alastor away from where she had seen William last.

Alastor let her for only what felt like a couple of inches before he let her know that she wasn't strong enough to will him anywhere. Then, his expression darkened.

"What did you do", he demanded again, and the truth pushed against her throat, begging to come out, no matter the consequences.

But she couldn't let it end. Not here.
Not like this.

Her own terms. At least. For once.
Just once.

Against her will, her eyes started watering.
"Please," she whispered, "If you feel anything for me. Just trust me this once. I'll do anything."

Bile rose up inside her throat at her sorry excuse of manipulation, at the look of disbelief he gave her.

She'd lost William in the crowd once more, and her heart beat outside her chest, alongside the drums that had just started up again, the last entertainment before midnight struck.

She felt utterly caged.

"I expected more of you than cheap tricks," he sighed, eyeing her in a way that let her know she had to think fast, "But, oh well."

Gratitude washed over her as she realized that he was in fact wanting for her approval.

Cheap, but it worked. Somehow. She hardly had it in her to trust his words.

Not that she trusted hers.

She positively bolted in direction of the exit, and she knew for a fact that he was rolling his eyes.

For a moment, she truly thought she could avoid the worst. For a moment, she believed she'd acted just at the right time.

The air around the entrance smelled so sweet, she was afraid she would start to bawl her eyes out.

That was until she heard Alastor's laugh get stuck in his throat the slightest bit.

As for her- she stopped breathing as soon as she saw William lean against the wall right next to the exit.

"Leaving already," William cooed, the smugness on his face painfully apparent, "The festivities are just about to start."

"I don't think we've been introduced," Alastor said, appearing behind her which made her feel brave for just a second before reality set in. "So, you'll hardly miss us, I'm sure."

An undeserved breath if relief escaped her. Alastor was on her side. Protective, almost, without her ever asking.
You'll find that men seldom like to share.
She felt sick again.

"Oh, we haven't," William replied coldly before turning to her with the sweetest expression, "But your companion... I know quite well."

She snarled at him before she could think. All he spared her in return was a laugh.

"Leave us be," Catherine spat, earning another laugh.

Alastor stayed concerningly silent, now settling on letting the scene play out in front of him, but never stepping away from her.

She didn't know what to think anymore.

"I expected more gratitude," William explained, "Considering I waited for you to change your mind. Give you another chance to come crawling back."

Catherine glared at him, and he looked back at her, a lazy smile playing around his lips.

But before she could come back at him in any way, Alastor spoke up again.

"Change your mind on what," he asked, his voice dangerously low.

"Oh, you did not tell him," William cooed, feigning surprise at something he was very well aware of.

How could she have ever thought it was a good idea to fool around with a small, pathetic man such as him?
Hubris. Plain and simple.

She turned to Alastor in a last, desperate attempt to sway him.
"Let's go. Please."

Somehow, she'd never seen him this cold. He didn't even try to hide it.
"Tell me what?"

He looked over her like she wasn't there.
This was a dead end. And it was all her fault.
And strangely, Alastor's feelings were what she was concerned about most.
How silly.

He did not stop William approaching, not even as he came to a stop right in front of her.

"So you have not changed you mind," William wondered disgustingly soft, "Los Angeles will lose out on a gem. As will I."

She felt paralyzed as his fingers reached out.

"What will I do, without all the sweet things you promised me," William asked, making sure to throw Alastor a look before touching her hair softly, making her think of his outburst immediately.

Only then did Alastor step between them.

"What a shame, that my friend has a habit of making empty promises," Alastor spoke up, his voice cutting her like a knife, "But I'm afraid she won't go anywhere with you."

She tried to read his expression, to make him see her, and how horrible she felt, but suddenly, he treated her as if she wasn't there.

William hummed, shrugging his shoulders as if he didn't care.

"That's quite alright," he admitted, "I'm not much of a fan of damaged goods anyways."

Her blood ran cold, and he grinned at it, leaning forward as much as Alastor's frame between them allowed him to.

"I did some digging," he mumbled, "I am hurt, that you hid your past from me so well. Whore."

"Leave me be," she shot back, her voice shaking. She should be more concerned, about what he could ruin with this information.

She realized she didn't care. All she cared about was leaving, and trying to avoid the worst.
Alastor's fury.

She wanted to spit at him. Yell at him. Beg on her knees for Alastor to forgive her.

"Gladly," William sneered, "I'll get my satisfaction, Cathy. I told you as much."

Suddenly, she was pushed back as Alastor took another step forward.
"Now, now," he said strangely calm, "That's quite enough. I bid you a good night, Sir."

William bowed his head in feigned respect dripped in irony before turning to Catherine once more.

"This is only the beginning," he promised before disappearing into the crowd again.

She could hardly comprehend what happened next, even though it was not much.

He did not look at her as he quickly exited the Orpheus. Without thinking, she quickly hurried after him.

She called out to him, yet he did not stop. From the way he moved, she had no idea where he was going, or if he even knew, but it didn't matter much in this moment.

In front of the Orpheus, there was much commotion- but he kept on walking, and as she finally got ahold of his coat, his arm, there was only dim street lights around them.

He pulled away with such force, she tripped and stumbled.
"Don't," he snapped.

At least he'd stopped for a moment.
"Wait," she said, like she was stupid, "I promise I-."

"I've come to learn your promises don't mean much, sweetheart," he cut in, ready to turn away again, "Now, if you'll excuse me."

For some reason, she felt pained at the devolvement back to meaningless pet names.

"Let me explain. Please," she begged, reaching for him again.

He caught her wrist before she could. For a moment, his grip was tight, almost enough to hurt her- then, his hand went limp.
"Do not touch me."

She felt pathetic at the fact that she was happy he hadn't let go yet. She didn't dare to push it further, though.

"I know how this looks," she admitted, "But I- you have to believe me, I stopped it- I didn't do anything."
He let go then, his laugh eerie.

"I can't believe this," he mused, "You're so full of yourself. Make me grovel at your feet, make me prove my honesty at every turn- and for what? Do the rules not apply to you, now? No masks, no pretension?"

"I'll be honest now," she promised, dizzy from her lack of air, "Just let me explain, I'll-"

"Fine," he replied coldly, "What did you promise him, other than to skip town? Your body? What else?"
"I didn't-"

He grabbed her by the arm now, pulling her closer.
And for the first time, she was scared. Not of the situation.
Of what he might do.

Their gazes met, and she almost missed his eyes widening, apparently in shock at the fear he found in her eyes.

His jaw tensed, but he let go regardless, crossing his arms, and then unfolding them again, almost as if he was nervous.

She could hardly keep track of the emotions on his face, appearing and disappearing in a quick pace.
She ignored the residue of pain in her arm.

"I did," she whispered, "I promised lots of things. But I changed my mind. I told him the deal was off. Now he is angry, and tries to put a wedge between us."

"Well, his efforts were not in vain," Alastor commented sourly.

The lump in her throat grew bigger and bigger. A part of her wished he would be rough with her again, yell at her, anything.

Just so she didn't have to feel so guilty. Just to prove he was capable of doing wrong, too.
It's been so long.

"But I was wrong to entertain it," she continued, words pouring out in hopes that anything would take them back to normal, "I was so confused then, but I know now- I know that I want to stay here. With you."

Her speech was supposed to feel more like a lie than it did, and it should've unsettled her. But all she could think about, see, feel- was the fact that she realized that his face only looked so strange to her because he displayed an emotion she'd not thought him capable of.

Hurt. Genuine, real hurt.

He swallowed, forcing a smile over it that looked more like an uncomfortable mask.
"I hope you enjoyed holding onto the moral high ground. You certainly have no way back up."

"You have to believe me," she sputtered, "Alastor, you know I'm telling the truth. You know how I- you saw me- How I-"

He interrupted her again, and she couldn't even be annoyed at it. She had no right to.

"How long," he asked sternly, "How long have you kept this from me?"
"I didn't want to go for a long time, I-"
"How long."

"I met him at the theatre," she admitted in defeat, "When you didn't show for Salome."

They both remembered that day all too well.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, letting the information sink in. Laughed joylessly. As he looked back at her, his eyes were cold. Unfeeling.

Catherine felt herself unravelling.

Suddenly, it wasn't about a few days anymore.

"You conspired behind my back," he recounted, his voice laced with disgust, "And played the devoted friend, confidante, lover, right after. Continued to do so for who knows how long, preying on my weakness, all while you always dared to have the audacity to play the victim. Truly, Catherine, you outdid yourself. You bested me. Well done."

"No," she replied weakly, distraught, trying to piece together a coherent thought, a way out of this mess in all these shambles, "I didn't mean to. I'm sorry."

He leaned closer, and she noticed he was shaking, his mouth in a barely controlled line.
"You will be."

She didn't recognize his voice. There was something so sinister, so dark wrapped around it, her knees turned to liquid instantly, while her feet begged her to run.

It was gone in an instant, a more familiar cruel smile playing around his lips.

"As soon as this man makes his threats a reality," he added, but it didn't seem right.

He turned on his heels again, clearly having every intention to walk away from her, which made her sick to the core.

"You should use your last favor, then," she called out to him in her desperation. She didn't want him to leave. "Before his meddling makes me useless to you."

It bordered on insanity, that it made her happy to see him turn back at her provovation.

Anything, for just a few more moments. To make things right.

"That's the worst part," he said, "I wish you were useless to me. You're rotten. Selling yourself to the next highest bidder, who would never look past your faults the way I did. Who would never see you. The way I did."

She grew angry then, being reminded of what William had alluded to before:
She was a whore. Always had been. And no matter how hard Alastor pretended to ignore it, he still held it against her when he could.

After all this work to make her think she was special. Her chest hurt upon the realization, even though she knew it reeked of double standards now.

"Arrogant, old money- what were you thinking? You should've seen this coming from a mile away," he continued berating her quickly before pausing- yet still sounding almost out of breath as he spoke up again. "And still, I want to help you avoid scandal- your downfall. Even though you deserve none of it."
"I don't care about that!"

"What do you care about, then," he asked, his voice dripping in scorn.

Catherine stumbled into heavy silence, her chest heaving.
Not because she didn't have an answer. Because the answer was so apparent it already waited on her tongue patiently, to drag her down into the abyss upon realization.

It was not about a few more days. About playing along until she had a chance to expose him.

Esther had been right. Of course, Esther had been horribly right.

She looked up at him helplessly, one single word hanging between them she did not dare to speak aloud.

You.

Alastor watched her, his eyes flashing for the quickest moment. She opened her mouth, and as soon as she did, his expression turned sour. Uncomfortable, even.

He shook his head.

"Don't you dare do this to me," he snapped, even though it almost sounded pleading, "I'm not going to fall for it twice."

A gasp escaped her, and she realized she'd almost let out a sob right in front of him.

"This isn't a game," she insisted, frustrated at his way of thinking even now, "This is my life."
"Then why do you keep winning?"

She didn't feel like winning. She felt like crying. Outsmarting him, being able to lie to him so convincingly he was blindsided, didn't feel as good as she thought it would before.

And then she remembered it was only half of what she was hiding.

"I don't want to win," she said, truthful for once, "I just don't want you to leave me."

It was a punch in the gut, at least that's what it felt like. To admit it. To know it to be true, while he surely thought she was lying.

For a moment, she relaxed as he reached out with a shaking hand, even though he was wiping something off her cheek that could only be a tear.
How embarassing.

He probably thought it was terrific.

Still, she leaned into his hand, always the stray dog starving for affection.

"I would suggest you do not follow me," he mumbled, and for some reason, it sounded pressed. "I cannot guarantee for your wellbeing right now."

Slowly, she watched him regain composure, and hated every second of it. She was ready to throw herself at his mercy, if only it meant forgiveness.

But alas, she did not. Something about his tone made her hesitate. Something about his words made her reel.
"What?"

His touch was in stark contrast to the harshness of his voice.

"But don't you worry," he added, his smile almost back to normal- almost. "You are, of course, right. There's still a favor to cash in. Until then, you'll have to excuse me. Before I forget myself."

His hand lingered only a moment longer, his eyes heavy with something she didn't understand, but went cold right underneath her skin regardless.

The worst part was that something deep inside did feel genuine, and in pain.

The rest gave her a visceral reaction he didn't get to see as he at last disappeared into the night.

As she burst into tears of panic, of heartbreak and something she could not begin to understand, she noticed she couldn't remember the last time she'd done so.

Alastor continued to be right on the money.

She was, without a doubt, and with no way back, truly rotten.

Chapter Text

January 1933.

The world- his world- had shifted, and he was afraid there was no going back anymore.

Alastor was furious with himself for letting it happen, so gradually yet quickly, and that he hadn't done anything to prevent it.

That he had been unable to.

It was over. No more games.
No more rules.

Only one reasonable route left.
Revenge.

You're going to make a fool of me.

And what a fine job she had done. Stellar. Truly outstanding.

He hated her. Her pretense, her lies, the feigned innocence, interest, submission.

And he'd fallen for it. Like an idiot. Thought himself untouchable, while she somehow slipped through the cracks of his control without notice. Filling his head with empty words, and even emptier touch.

It meant nothing.

His plans were null and void. It didn't matter what she felt anymore, positive or negative.

He wanted her to feel pain. Hear her scream.
He would make her surrender at last.
No more games.

There was no space left between his seething rage, his wounded pride, and the thought of her outplaying him over and over.

The remembrance of the fact that he set out to kill her twice, and yet she still walked the earth, probably feeling mighty proud of herself.

It was the last time she would best him.

And yet- a seed of doubt grew, that it meant he wasn't able to.

He had to refuse to believe it. Alastor was very much capable of the worst of acts, and no little nobody from nowhere would break through.

Besides, he would rather have her dead than leave him. She didn't get to walk away unscathed.

Not when she ruined him for all that he  was worth.
Admittedly, his mind was a whirlwind. Even if he tried, his scheming days were over.

He had done nothing to prevent her from fleeing now, as if he didn't have an arsenal of people having watched her every move in the past.

Well, clearly not every move. Then he wouldn't be in this situation. And she would be dead already.

He didn't have the energy, and had to rely on her feelings he'd try to nurture- or rather, sheer, dumb luck.

Oh, how much he hated it. To go out and not being able to rely on yourself.

Luckily, sheer, dumb luck hadn't left him quite yet- oh, the irony- and it had only taken him two days to sift through the most pretentious of places in the city to finally hunt down what he was looking for.

Not too much, though; thank God, he wasn't in the mood for judgmental looks, highlighting the difference between him and true high society.

He was well aware. The reminder would send him into a craze, and he wasn't equipped to deal with the consequences.

William Fern was clearly at the last stop for the night, red in the face, a little too drunk to care for his appearance.

And still, a look of pride in his pasty face. Superiority that was so undeserved.

Old money always came with arrogance. Had Catherine been thinking at all?

Tell me you want me.
It's not a matter of wanting. I need you.

Hatred, jealousy, whatever it was, hit him in the stomach so hard he got nauseous.

What equally egregrious thing had she whispered into his ear? He didn't even want to imagine. If he did, his remnants of self-control would fly right out the window, and he would lock onto William Fern's throat like a rabid dog.

He smiled through his vision blurring as he finally noticed Alastor and waved him over without a care in the world.
A prick, an arrogant one nonetheless, through and through. He wanted to break the hand that touched her.

And she would've let him, too. After everything.

How dare she? How could she have it in herself to dare?
Was every word that had left her pretty, little, false mouth, a lie?
She would pay. For all of it.

Alastor sat down, trying to hide his shaking hands, trying his best to muster a smile that wasn't a grimace.

Not that it mattered. Through William Fern's smile, you could see the disgust on display for all. He made no secret of his distaste for what he thought Alastor to be.
New money. No mentionable descent.

Strangely, it reminded him of his father, and that did nothing but turn his blood even colder.

Unfortunately for Mr. Fern, Alastor was much, much worse of a person than he thought.

Oh well. He would find out soon enough.

Alastor fought his nausea through pointless pleasantries, clenching his teeth and ordering a round for the two of them.

Pretending was so much harder when you went in without a plan. But he could not let it deter him. Men like Mr. William Fern, they could smell insecurity like a bloodhound. And while Catherine proved to be smart enough to fool him, William certainly was not.

Maybe that had been her plan all along. Switching to a more controllable model.

He would've been proud of her, if it wasn't for the overbearing anger he felt because of all people, she used what she learned against him.

When he was done, there would be no William Fern to run off to.

Not that she could run from him. Even if she tried again.
He could not stop. To keep circling back to his own peril.

"I hope there's an understanding," William said, "I bear you no ill will. My gripe is with her, not you."

Alastor nodded along, lining up one 'of course' after the other, hands as flat on the table as he could without falling out of line, baffled at the fact how little effort this man put into appearing as something other than an idiot.

To think that she preferred this. Almost chose to run away with this. Disappointing, truly.

"After all," William laughed, "You understand it just as well as I. Better, probably."
"Pardon?"

His voice was agitating. Imagining this voice speaking to her, telling her sweet nothings, was agitating.

He didn't have the patience, and yet he had to listen. When all he wanted was to make him shut up.

"Well, you wasted a considerable amount of time," William explained, feigning compassion when it was all cocky display, "It is truly tragic. We waste our time on pretty faces, only to be betrayed. In the end, they're all the same. Oppurtunists. Whores."

Alastor felt like he needed to break his fingers not to smash his face to pulp.
His hum of agreement felt off.

"It was kind of you," he lied through his teeth, "To make me aware of Catherine's situation. I thank you."

To say her name aloud proved to be a challenge. It caressed his throat, ready to choke him into breaking.
No. Not yet. Not quite yet.

"Of course. It is not your fault," William replied casually, drinking too quickly, turning his tongue loose, "Her kind is slippery. Selfish. Not worth our time. We're both victims, I'm sure."

All lies. So many obvious lies. Alastor knew this man looked down on him.

All the more reason to bury him.

Luckily, William also appreciated to be admired by those he thought under him, so Alastor had to do nothing but listen to his ramblings and bite his tongue until it bled to make William think of him as a fun, little accessory.

As degrading as it was, it wasn't like Catherine had left him much choice.

So he listened to him ramble on. Drag her through the mud. Wonder if he seemed just as pathetic as Mr. Fern, still not letting go of her.

So what. They would both be history in a matter of hours.
A sidenote in a newspaper. What would it matter, then?

William slurred a good deal by the time he was done. What a pathetic creature.

"I hope you know," he said, "I intend to punish her, not you. You just carry on, without the burden of this woman using you."

Alastor swallowed down the venom rising up his throat, donning another false smile.

He was already exhausted. By William Fern, by the fact that he still felt like defending her.

"I sought you out for a reason," Alastor said, then, "I've been thinking. Why shouldn't I help you?"

William's brows rose, finally truly interested. Alastor's plan had been quickly thrown together and not well thought out. It was laughable how easy it was still.

"Well, I have certain information you lack. About connections. Friends," Alastor explained, his jaw almost too tense to speak, "That should make your plans that much easier."

William laughed, giddy like a little kid, and Alastor almost pitied him.
All this over a bruised ego.

It slipped his mind before he could notice the double standard in his own way of thinking.

"How about a night cap," Alastor suggested now, finally picking up his pace at the excitement of cleaning up some of the mess, "At mine. So we can discuss it further, without any unnecessary eyes and ears?"

Alastor was questioning William's intelligence fully now, or rather his sense of self-preservation. There was no pushback- he immediately agreed to the suggestion.

Before long, they were seated in a car back to his house. It was hard to not be amazed at the easiness of it all.

So much so that Alastor hardly paid any mind to the fact that he had no plan in place when people came looking for Mr. William Fern. He hardly knew who saw them leave.
It was not his style, he had to admit. He'd just lost the ability to care.

In time, he would find a way to make it all seem unrelated. But now was not the time for scheming.
It was time to act.

Back at the house, he handed William another drink, wondering if it was the glass her delicate hands had held.

He played a record, for the mood, to pass the time, to not break his neck immediately. Or then, his glass, recalling little things about Catherine's life, things that could hurt her.

He only felt comfortable doing so because William would not leave this room alive. But of course, William didn't know that, delighted at the sneer in Alastor's voice, who stopped speaking to wait patiently as William stumbled to the bathroom, changing sides on the record before casually walking by William's glass to drop something into it, just in time before he found his way back into the salon.

William had forgotten that Alastor had been speaking beforehand, and ran his mouth again.

About his plans with "Cathy". About his disappointment not to have had her. What it would've been like, since she turned out to be a professional.

It took the last remainders of his self-control to wait then.
As William downed his drink and made a face, muttering under his breath about cheap whiskey, Alastors forced smile slowly turned real.

"It is sad, truly," Alastor finally spoke up, "She would've done anything to escape that life. I watched her try her very hardest."

The double meaning slipped this idiot's grasp, of course, but he still furrowed his brows.
"I thought you didn't know."

"Oh, I did," Alastor replied casually, "It was me who got her out. And I won't let you drag her back in."

Doubt took ahold of William then, his eyes going through confusion, disgust, and utter, senseless panic in quick succession.

He fumbled, only now realizing he was way too drunk, knocking the glass over and revealing the orange peel inside his glass was dry, and rotten.

He missed her bleeding. He missed all that was.

William tried to stand up, but Alastor was already beside him, pushing him back down easily now that the neat little drug he'd put into his drink started to take effect.
"What," William sputtered, "I'm an important man. You can't-"

"I do not care," Alastor interrupted him, his fingers digging into William's shoulder mercilessly, "I'm afraid you read me all wrong."

By now, William's tongue would have to get heavy, which is probably why he didn't respond.

Finally. He was shutting up.

Alastor leaned down towards him, finally feeling something at least akin to satisfaction.

Consequences ceased to exist in his mind. Plans. Only revenge was left.

And he would start with this man, no matter how inconsequential he technically was to him.

"You've made a dire mistake," Alastor muttered almost softly, "See, you've picked the wrong man to try and take from."

William sounded like he was choking now, his hands trying to grasp at Alastor, and utterly failing. Alastor just grabbed him harder in response.

"I do not take kindly to people stealing from me," he told him under his breath, "And I protect what is mine."

William's head hit the table with such a loud thump, one could be worried he split his head open.

Alastor shrugged. Not much in there to salvage, anyways.

While his mind was still in shambles, his step got unreasonable lighter and chipper at seeing a disgusting creature slumped in a chair.

A shame. He could have left this city unscathed, if only he looked the other way.

Yes, they were both victims of her manipulations. But luckily, Alastor had less of a conscience.

Less to lose. Maybe even nothing. Only time would tell.
Or rather, her. If you could still believe anything that came out of her mouth.

He rid William of his belt, tying him to the chair for later.
Alastor looked down, realizing that after all this, his hands were still shaking.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
And time was running out. By tomorrow, people would be worried for this prick.

By tomorrow, the world might shift once more. But again, he just couldn't bring himself to care. To worry about it anymore.

He would punish them both, if it was the last thing he did. Of course, he should be panicked- his carefully led double-life was likely to rain down on him in sharp pieces by the time the sun rose. This would likely be the end of his indulgence in violence.

But he wasn't some fool you could play. And they would find out. No matter the consequences.

After securing William elsewhere where he couldn't be seen, it was well past midnight.
Devil's hour.

"You have to excuse me," he told William's sack of unconcious body, "Before I can give you my full attention, there's something else I have to deal with."

He took a deep, shaky, horrid breath.
Insanity was a cliff, and he was balancing right alongside it. Considering the fall. How the chances of survival were, when he inevatibly fell off either way.

Which was, of course, all her fault.

She would learn her lesson. He would make sure. That they both would fall, clawing at each other, locked in a tight embrace.

She'd made her choice. Now, it was his turn. One last time.

"I'm sure you understand that 'Cathy' is my upmost priority," he continued on,
"After all, you're just collateral damage."

Chapter Text

trigger warning: violence. but sexual. be warned pls

One day bled into the other. How much time had truly passed, Catherine didn't know.

The room was always dark, and she spent her time on gloomy thoughts.

Theo was the last person she'd spoken to, hushed tones on the telephone while she was still capable, asking him for help. To finally see through her plan, even though it seemed so pointless now.

She stared until the dark started flimmering, thinking about his deep voice, desperately trying to calm her. Never mentioning Esther.

She thought of her mother. Of how she suddenly began to miss her, and all her faults, the pain she caused, just because she was so desperate for someone to tell her what to do. Who to be. Now that there was just darkness.
She thought of days ago, when she'd tried to read. The Iliad, for some reason. Dusty book with entirely too many words. She thought of Helen, the thousand ships, and a glorified prison disguising itself as love.

The death that followed it. Of newspapers, fortelling dark futures, the fate of the world crumbling, and her own apathy.

There were no ships coming for her, though; and her prison was all but built by her own hands.

And to think- all this, just to try and avoid him consuming her mind even further.
As if it wasn't too late already.

Her state helped nonetheless; she hadn't fumbled to tune in her radio, and except for images, memories passing by, she kept her thoughts trailing back towards him to a minimum.
Of this man she might never see again.

She knew it was agony turning her into a shell, but to admit to it was an entirely different issue.

She wished it was William's threats keeping her from sleep; she wished it was anything else.
But it was too late to pretend. What use did it have, to keep lying to herself?

Every single feeling, motivation, crazy train of thought- it all circled back to him.

And all of a sudden, the loss of something she'd so desperately tried to rid herself of didn't feel like success anymore.
It felt like hell.

Catherine was just about to let her head fall back onto the pillow, let her eyes flutter shut while she pretended to rest, only to be snapped out of her own despair by the sound of relentless hammering ringing through her entire apartment.
Her heartrate spiked, and after all this laying around, it was enough to make her feel dizzy as soon as she stood up, her body barely keeping her upright.

She adjusted her gown, listening to the eratic thumping coming from her front door.

Her stomach dropped, reminded of her life before, the sketchy neighborhoods, and Mr. Fitch. The constant fear she thought long gone, replaced by another.

Catherine was sure her state of mind was at fault as she fumbled for the drawer of her nightstand, her hand searching in the dark without a second thought until cold metal met her fingertips.

The gun was heavy in her hands, and strangely assuring as she slowly tiptoed out of the bedroom, as if the relentless banging on her door didn't drown out any other noise anyways.

She did not know why she took it, much less why she didn't have to gripe with her conscience so suddenly.

She only knew that whoever was trying to get her attention so desperately was bad news.

One of William's lackeys, maybe. A dissatisfied customer. An enraged wife. Who was to tell?

She was surprised that she even cared enough.

With the gun behind her back, she made her way to the front door. Right in front of the door, the banging was loud enough to make her ears ring. Her clock read 3am, something that should've stopped her visitor, or freaked her out.

Yet suddenly, she calmed. Like she'd only twice before.
When she was ready to kill.

A enraging lack of concern made her hand fall to the side, just the least bit angled towards the entrance, as she opened the door with the other.

The wrong finger almost curled in shock as she saw the face on the other side.

Alastor pushed past her without much of a greeting. Without thinking, she stepped aside, and only realized her naivetè as he slammed the door shut unreasonably loud.

She could feel her face drain of any remaining color as she finally looked into his eyes.

He looked utterly crazed.

On instinct, her hand curled tighter around her newly aquired accessory.

"This is all your fault," he spat, "All of it."

"Are you quite alright," she asked, voice shaking, "You look-"

He scoffed, shutting her up before she could finish.
"Leave it. Chances are, this was your plan all along, wasn't it? To have me fall."

His gaze lowered down to her hand still holding his gift, and he laughed.

It did not sound genuine. It sounded horrifying.

"Oh, please. Don't be ridiculous," he snarled.

Before she could think, or had any chance to react, he'd whirled her around, dangerously close.

A yelp excaped her mouth as he twisted the gun out of her hand efficiently and quickly, and while not brutish, she had no chance of fighting back, the way he had her in his grip, pulled her wrists into all the wrong directions.

She could hardly move her head, and could only tell the new location of the gun by the clattering sound as it hit the floor.

"So that's how you treat my generosity," he commented, his voice too harsh, too cold, too cruel, "I should've known."

He pulled her closer, his frame suddenly a terrifing force against her back, his mouth on her ear, twisted, horrid, as he whispered, "It was all going so well. Everything was according to plan. And then you ruined it. You turned against me the last time."

Her voice sounded hardly like her own. Suddenly, she was back to being a little girl, a terrified wife, a helpless whore.

"Let go," she pleaded, close to sobbing, "I don't know what you're talking about. You're scaring me!"

He let go immediately, and she stumbled away from him, gasping in a sloppy breath of air.

Alastor looked bored, then, completely unbothered as he kicked the gun with his foot, sending it sliding down the hallway.

"You should not keep a loaded gun," he explained casually, "It's quite unsafe, my dear."

She felt her lip quiver as she looked up at him. While on accident, the smallest hope remaining that it would soften his anger vanished into thin air as he looked at her with something that could only be described as hatred.

It was only then her eyes burned.
A silly, little girl. Through and through.

"Whatever I've done," she gained the strength to say, "I didn't mean to hurt you. I hardly knew I could."

She was too calm for her liking. If her instincts were working the slightest bit, she would try to make a run for it. Jump out the window, if necessary.

But the look in his eyes told her it was useless. The glimmer told her it would likely be thrilling for him.
And still, in all this, she was searching. For a flash of the man she'd known inbetween.

"Did it delight you," he wondered, "To lie to my face about your morals? To strip me of my pride and dignity? To fool me into believing your act, until you left me no choice but crumble into a shadow of myself? A masterclass in entertainment, no doubt. I'll keep your lesson in mind."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she repeated, deflated, directionless.

He ignored her, and suddenly, it made her seethe instead of shiver.

"Did it excite you," he continued questioning her, "To make me think I've won a great conquest in earning your trust, making you give yourself to me, while promising to spread your legs just to run from me?"

Her mouth formed a thin line, and she regretted her reply as soon as she spoke.
"You'd do well to remember how vulnerable it can make one," she repeated his own words back at him, "A silly attachment. The delusion to own someone, when you don't."

She wasn't even surprised as she was slammed, albeit more softly than she expected, against her door.
As she looked up at him, she was prepared to feel fear again.

She did not. Instead, and with no reasonable explanation at all, she felt pity.

Because suddenly, the despair she'd been feeling for so long slipped through his mask and crashed down over her like a stormy sea.

"So, so clever," he cooed, "I hope you're proud of yourself. My life's work, my finale ruined, all because of you. While it is I who has to suffer the consequences of what you made me do. All I did, for you only."

She still had no idea what he was talking about, but at this point, it felt redundant to say.

Any words that were about to form got stuck in her throat anyways as his hands reached out to cup her face, like this entire scene hadn't just played out, his thumb wandering down her throat as a pleading, desperate look dissipated the harshness of his features while his hands shook, making the bones of her jaw vibrate alongside them.
She got sick just from watching his mood change so erratictly.

Alastor seemed like he had lost his mind.

"Why," he muttered sounding so utterly pathetic, "Why leave me. What have I done, to deserve this?"

She fought against her heart softening, pushing it close, trying to remind herself of all the obvious answers. Mr. Fitch. The newspapers. The gangs. The key. His lies. His behavior. To watch him switch between a monster and the man she'd so desperately craved.

It all seemed so pointless now. The truth crawled up her throat, demanding to be let out at last.

"You will be my end," she whispered, eyes closed, "And I cannot let you destroy me."

His thumb, still resting on her throat quivered.

It was as she'd broken the dam now, words falling out of her mouth like overripe apples from a tree.

"I know you do not feel for me," she continued, quick and breathless, "I know I'm entertaining. Enjoyable. That's it. I know you will tire of me. Throw me away. I know that if I- that if I stay, I will never go. I know I'll let you make use of me as you see fit, favors or not. I know that if I stay in chains, I will never want to leave. I will try and try for you to see me, and never succeed. And I cannot allow it. I cannot- I cannot let you destroy everything I am. I needed to run, before I stopped to care. And I failed."

For a moment, they stood in silence, her back still pressed snugly against the door.

Then, his hands wandered down her neck, locking her jaw into a soft, yet tight grip as he made her look up at him.

"You know just what to say, don't you," he asked softly, and it was then tears welled up in her eyes.

"It doesn't matter what I tell you," she concluded, her voice cracking, "You will twist it how you see fit. I could tell the utmost truth, hand you the remainder of my shame on a silver platter, and it would never be enough. Not for you."

"You know nothing," his voice shook, if in rage or something else, she was not able to tell, "I see you everywhere. I hear you everywhere. In every song, in every passing conversation. It never stops. You call out to me, and I can't help to stop but grasp for it. I hate it, I hate you, for how much it consumes me, makes me want to drop to my knees and give up."

He took a shaky breath to steady himself before continuing, his eyes full of conflict.
"You haunt me, and you're not even dead yet."

The implication flew right past her as relief rummaged through her insides, her knees turning to liquid upon the revelation.

To realize that's all she ever wanted to hear, no matter how pathetic it made her. To know, that it wasn't all fantasy. That there was something, fate, stupidity, pulling them together again and again.

A tragedy of the highest caliber.

"But it's too late," she wondered, "Isn't it."

His hand grabbed onto her hair like it was the last remaining lifeline. It should've hurt, but it didn't as he chuckled.

"Why yes," he said, rambled on, alluding to something she could not fully grasp, "I'm positively doomed. All because of you and your silly, silly words."

"Stop," she demanded, "Stop speaking in riddles. What do I need to do to make you drop the mysteries?"

Knowing gutted her before he even spoke.

"Tell me you want me. And maybe, maybe it will be enough."

Her patience had run out. And something deep inside her knew that time had, too.

"I want you," she breathed, "I'm tired of fighting it. I want you."

His kiss came sudden and reckless, disposing of all air inside her lungs and sweeping her off her feet.
If his words had been erratic, his hands were downright crazed. Reaching for her, clawing at her, holding on for dear life.

She'd never been touched in such desperation.
She'd never felt so desperate.

Before she could retaliate in any way, her arms were pushed against the wall. She was concerned for her sanity because his tight grip made her weak in the knees.

It didn't hurt. It was close to make her whimper as he spoke low, too close to her face.
"Do I scare you still?"

"Yes," she breathed, "You do."
"Good. Wise choice, really."

Catherine wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream at him to stop. To plead with him to continue.

She didn't get to. His hands were on her again in an instant, undoing her gown, letting it fall down, his hands immediately on her slip, and while she savoured every grasp, she only realized he was pushing it up as he dropped to his knees.

Her fear, the thoughts of the graveyard, of how many secrets she still kept from him fell flat in her mind as his fingers dug so deep into her thigh, pushing it up, all while it still wasn't the most apparent sensation.

She was on her tiptoes almost, and didn't even question her reaction anymore.

It was daunting. How easy it was to succumb to it all.

To sin.

She felt like melting, like her legs would give way under her. The now all-too familiar pressure returned to her core, but once again, it was then he pulled away. Pulled her with him down the hall, her taste now in her own mouth along with his tongue, already disshevelled.

The tip of her foot caught the gun, and she tripped, being caught by only him.

She was dizzy as he smiled at her, his eyes on fire, as he kicked it away from her again, right into the open door of her room.

Catherine did not question it. She hardly noticed, all while a sense of dread still rummaged through her stomach she couldn't explain.

He let go of her in the dark of the room, only illuminated by the light in the hallway.

He urged her deeper into the room until she sat herself down on the bed, his frame hugged by the light coming from the doorframe.

To think. She'd spent so much time mourning him here.
She looked up at him, his silhouette almost threatening as she wondered if she should be more scared as she was.
Her heart beat faster nonetheless as he went to his knees right in front of her, nails once more buried in her thighs, pushing them apart, the look on his face indescribable.

Hating. Pleading.

"I don't have it in myself anymore," he told her, "To pretend. To be nice."

Beside herself, she laughed.
"You would say that this far, you've been nice to me?"

His look shut her right up. Made her want to press her knees together. Pull him to her.

"Nicer than I wanted to," he admitted, his head dropping, "Clearly."

Her hands found their way into his hair, not knowing which direction to pull anymore, and finally opting to make him look up to her.

"Do you want to hurt me? Is that it," she simply asked.
"You hurt me," he said, every word a struggle, "And I wish you weren't able to."

For a moment, she hesitated. Reminded of violence past, the look he gave her sometimes.

Haunting. Preying.

But now, he only looked troubled. So, so troubled.

"I'm not scared of you for the reasons I should," she mumbled, "I'm scared that you'll leave. Retaliate all you like. I'll still cling to you, even when I shouldn't."

In the past, she'd left her body. Made herself feel numb just to survive. This feeling was similar, yet so different.

It was no numbness. Reason just ceased to exist. For both of them, trying to navigate a feeling that was simply too much to bear.

He rose, meeting her halfway. Suddenly, he had his hands hooked under her, throwing her onto her back, and appearing over her.

Disbelief, danger, delusion clouded his eyes before he was all over her again, hands and nails and teeth, and she felt like she was falling, ripping at him to stay afloat.

Nothing made sense anymore. But then, nothing had to make sense anymore.

It was hard enough to think, with his hands on her, inside her, pushing, pulling her to wherever he needed her.

The remainder of her clothes were gone before she was able to form a coherent thought again.

You'd do well to remember how vulnerable it can make one. A silly attachment. The delusion to own someone, when you don't.

Her hands were shaking too much to do the same, but she was still relieved to feel some of his skin, his scars, the stumbling beat of his heart.

She was close to unravelling as she felt his hand close around her throat for just a moment, a groan escaping her at the action.

His words sounded like rambling. A madman, trying to justify something noone understood.

She looked up at him in awe all the same, breath trapped in her throat.

"Why," he simply demanded.

Words ceased to make sense. Reason ceased to exist. She didn't know how to answer this question that barely was one, so she just repeated his name, like a prayer, like begging a higher power to end her suffering.

She felt like a traitor, then. Betraying her own self, God, Him- but with reason dead and buried, what did it change?

It was enough to please him for the moment, it seemed. In a mere moment, they were back to clawing at each other, her hands growing impatient while clawing at his pants.

She gave up halfway. But she'd already forgotten that, and barely felt the remaining fabric on her legs as he finally entered her.

And suddenly, she understood what he'd meant. About being done to be nice.

The entire feeling was different now. He was rough, seemingly without mercy, when in the past, she'd felt like he was scared to break her.

There was no fear anymore. And somehow, stupidly, it made her feel wanted even more.

His hand returned to her throat again and again, his teeth grazing her more than once, to which she only responded by clawing into him, not caring if she left any kind of mark.
His only response was to clasp at her leg, pushing it upwards to her body until it almost hurt.

The sensation following was almost enough to drive tears into her eyes. She gasped, close to overwhelmed at the sheer deepness of what he made her feel inside.

It didn't feel like he wanted to be only close go her anymore, his arm hooked under her knee, his mouth on her throat.
It felt like he wanted to consume her.

And she would've let him, too. She tried to surpress the animalistic sounds bubbling up inside her throat, until he demanded her to stop, which she did without complaint.
He had her in the palm of her hand, and she wondered if he realized, explaining his own sounds.

Sometimes, if you listened too closely, he sounded pained.
The more time passed, the sloppier they seemed to get, and she felt barely human anymore.

She was sweating, his hands holding on harder to avoid slipping, and somehow only deepening their closeness, in harsh, merciless thrusts.

Her hand slipped too, and this time, she felt it go right into his skin.

If he noticed, it elevated his need for her even further.
They chased their high simultaneously, and as he kissed her, his mouth vibrating with yet another groan, she was sure she tasted blood again.

It didn't matter as her body convulsed, carried her away on bliss unknown, only elevated by his body doing the very same.

His hand finally slipped, his body slacking in its entirety right beside her, still half his weight on her which she didn't mind one bit.

He sounded almost drunk as he spoke lowly into her ear, breath heavy.
"I can't. I can't- what's wrong with me?"

If she had any breath, or mind left, she might have made a joke that everything had worked out perfectly fine.

But she watched the outline of his face from under her lashes, and realized the trouble it still bore.

She pressed a kiss to his temple, instead. He shuddered.

"Something bothers you," she said, still shook from moments before, "Talk to me. For once."

He shook his head over and over, somehow still shaking.
She pushed him off now, somehow hurt, yet enraged.
No matter what she did, he didn't let her in. She could probably commit a crime for him and he'd still find a way to keep her at arm's length.

She was so tired. Of it all. And yet, she would make no effort to stay away for good.

It was too late for that, anyways.

And he had the audacity to look offended. Hurt, even.
She stared back at him until he answered, his hand reaching out to push a strand of her behind her ear, suddenly so soft again.

"Some things, I cannot share," he said, his breath laboured, "If I did, well- you'd be long gone."

She flinched away from him, but he caught her before she could get far, his arm reaching around her while he kissed her shoulder.

His wording irked her, and once again, despite better judgement, she ignored it. Maybe because he seemed vulnerable enough to use it to her advantage. Or maybe because she was plain stupid.

"I used to think you're so smart," she said, not being able to place her own tone, "But if you really think you can get rid of me that easily, you're the stupidest man I've ever met."

He pushed her away just a little bit, something akin to anger, to sadness flashing across his eyes.

Before he could reply, she spoke up again, her fingers digging into his arms.

Suddenly, the hatred was back on her tongue, lashing out with words that did not match.
"I'm yours in every sense of the word. What more do you want?"

He seemed uncomfortable, half propped up, his eyes darting around the room before all the tension disappeared along with a soft chuckle.

She wished she would get an answer. A number on how much more he needed her to break down, go mad, before it meant anything.

Instead, he replied, "I do like the sound of that."

He sat up straighter then, and once again, the fact that this still seemed to be a game for him crashed down on her.
He was willingly keeping her starved. And she just let him.
She should've shot him when she had the chance.

"And now you leave," she accused him, more desperate than she wanted to.

His breath had turned shallow as he smiled down at her.
It would never stop. The struggle for power. The struggle for the truth, and concealing it all the same.

"I cannot stay," he said softly, "There is something I need to do."

"Of course," she sneered, "There always is."

Before she had it in her to defend herself, he pulled her back down, back into his arms.

"After you've fallen asleep," he added, his voice tender, or defeated, she didn't have a clue.

Just enough to keep her tame. Typical.

He played the role just fine, stroking her hair and pretending to get his breathing under control. So she did the same, feigning exhaustion at last.

"Say it again," he said, and of course she listened, muttering under her breath that she belonged to him, hardly questioning it, and only trying to slur her words a little more every time she did. Letting her body slack after a while, deepening her breathing.

Her act seemed to be believable enough; after a while, he kissed the top of her head, mumbled something into her hair she didn't understand and carefully got up.

She played her part diligently, opening her eyes just enough so she could see his silhouette through her lashes, while they still looked closed.

Catherine watched his blurred figure bend down and pick up what she assumed to be the gun.

She let her eyes fall shut as she heard him turn. She listened to his footsteps coming closer again, and her heart started beating faster.

Alastor seemed to consider something, as it took awhile before he laid it down on her nightstand and quickly walked away.

Then, as she opened her eyes for just a moment, he held her doorframe like it was his last resort. With eyes still halfway closed, she watched him, making a noise, a plea that sounded barely human.

For a moment, she considered grabbing the gun and shoot right through his knee.

One grab. One movement, and he would not be able to move. To get away.

She didn't dare to. For some reason.

She should've felt crazy, when she didn't.

And as soon as he left, tears started to roll down her face. If angry, or disappointed, or simply lost, she did not know.

Chapter Text

The following morning was cold. Too cold, even for january. Too wet, a feeling that crept up into your bones and made you shiver through your clothes.

Every step Catherine took, she could not take without a reminder of the night before.

Like a sickness you could not get rid of.

A pain, a throbbing that made her yearn for him just as much as curse him.

At least shivering made sense at this moment.

The key lay like a stone in her coat pocket as she walked on through heavy fog laid out like a blanket on top of the cobblestone.

The irregularity of the street made her realize she'd chosen the wrong shoes for this.

As if it mattered how she was perceived.

At least she managed not to trip as the daunting sight of the graveyard at early dawn slowly inched closer.
She should've felt silly. But lately, she hardly felt anything appropiate at all.

Well, maybe except the sweet, nauseating pain radiating from her lower body.
Always with her. Never leaving her.

One could say: haunting.

Catherine halted, stopped in her tracks as the silhouette, hugged by the fog, didn't match the one she was expecting.
Fear, rage even, curdled her blood while she willed herself to walk on, her legs attempting to refuse every step.

Her lack of breath became apparent as she stopped, and demanded in shaky, strained whisps of what was once her voice, "Where's Theo."

It was barely a question, and she shook at her own inability to seem daunting.

She was about to turn on her heels, to run, as the figure that had now become a living, breathing person rather than a shadowy figure put up their hands defensively.

"Wait," Esther said, "Cathy, listen to me for just a moment. Please."

"You're not supposed to be here," she said, realizing she sounded like a pouty child, "You're not supposed to be near me at all. Where is Theo?"

Her anger almost overshadowed the fact that watching Esther's shocked, worried face made her want to break out into tears.

"Theo told me to come instead," Esther explained softly, "I'm sorry for everything. I wanna make it up to you."

She crossed her arms- the only thing missing would've been stomping her foot.

"I don't want you to," she snapped, embarassed at her own childishness, "Theo's over the line. I didn't ask for this. For any of it."

Catherine could barely look at her. A shameful, horrid part inside her wanted to throw itself at Esther, craving some kind of comfort in all this insanity.

Esther's eyes darkened, the sadness palpable on her face.
"I know. I told him that I didn't-"

She interrupted herself, a deep sigh leaving her lips before finding the strength to speak up again. "He thought you might need me."

She couldn't stop her lip from quivering, fighting the burning of her eyes.

Catherine would not cry. She would not break. If she was able to hold it in last night, to not succumb to madness in front of him, she would keep it together now.
She walked by Esther before she could comment on her desastrous state.

Unfortunately, she kept Catherine's pace.
Those damn shoes.

Catherine tried to remember the directions the detective had given her, her head jumbled, full of thoughts, feelings, and Esther's neverending, apologetic monologue that got on her nerves.

Esther tried her best to explain, and Catherine hated every second of it.

Esther talked about how bad she felt. For what she'd said. How they'd parted. That she regretted it deeply.

Catherine wanted her to shut up more than anything. She wanted to throw herself at her old friend, forget all that happened, who she'd become and go back to what once was. Who she once was.

Not because she liked who she'd been. But at least, back then there was still some sense to her left.

There had still been time to turn into something less rotten and wrong.

Catherine whirled around, an accusatory finger pointed at Esther that felt misplaced.

"It doesn't matter," she spat, "It is too late now anyways. You're too late."

Esther tried to hide her confusion, and concern, she really did. One could almost be touched by the effort.
Catherine laughed, rolling her eyes.

"You're not making sense," Esther said, trying to talk her way out of her reaction, "Cathy, you gotta tell me what's on your mind."

She wasn't even sure if the hatred in her eyes was justified anymore. She just knew how taken aback Esther looked, and that if she stopped, she would cleanly break in half.

"What does it matter," she shot back, "You would not believe a word of it."

Sunlight crept in slowly, already reflecting the teardrops forming in Esther's eyes.

"It doesn't," Esther whispered, "I don't need to believe anything. I'm here for you, and nothing else."

Catherine felt gutted, felt herself bleeding out on the ground, barely alive, torn between the things she should feel and those she'd forgotten how to feel.

She'd forgotten words, too. So she just turned, and went on.
How was reality to ever return to her if the cards seemed to be stacked against her, to always surprise her at her worst?

Esther kept on following. Catherine ground her teeth. She wanted to turn around, accept the apology, go back to the past.

She wanted to run back home, come back crawling to him and beg him to hold her.
Forget about it all.
Or end it.
Maybe it was all the same.

"You're wearing pants," Esther commented as they came to a stop on a wider path, littered with crypts and tombs, "I've never seen you do that."

Catherine refused to look at her, the voice of her mother grating inside her head at her poor clothing choices as she looked over this place that did not make her as uneasy as it should.

Her comment did a better job, truly.

"Don't," Catherine warned before finally spotting something that helped her orientation.

Her memory was muddy. The call had been too long ago. She'd waited too long, in her stupidity, in her naiveté, and only sheer luck prevented her from paying the price.

The key weighed even heavier, now. Her legs, too.
She tried to distract herself by walking. Wondering whether she should feel betrayed by Theo or not.

But before long, it seemed like she'd found the right place.
The crypt, while large, was not overly fancy, bearing an old death date and a name she did not recognize.

The silence was heavier than the fog, even, as she reached into her pocket, hands shaking as she opted for the heavy, slim door, and had to realize that the key did in fact fit.

The fear returned, then; of what lay behind, how it would change her life and perception, but also fears she thought long gone.

In her inner eye, she saw her husband, hand raised; she saw Mr. Fitch face above hers, William Fern's mouth in contorted rage. Herself, beaten, bloodied, in tears- in rage, at her lack of choices, her inability to change her fate.

The day her fate had changed. Alastor's smile, calm against her accusation, his softened face, eyes never leaving her as she made him tell her the things she wanted to hear.

How the illusion of choice, of fate, of happiness might snap and crash as soon as she opened this door.

Suddenly, Esther's hand was above hers, and for some reason, she didn't swat it away as she wanted to.

Esther's mouth spat out all the wrong and right things.
"Maybe it'll give you some peace of mind."

Finally, Catherine looked at her, quickly realizing it was a mistake.

There was concern, motherly concern, in Esther's eyes; but beneath all the worry, it shifted.

From being concerned for her, to concerned about her.

Finally, she pushed Esther's hand away, knowing washing over her like a cold, quick, merciless rain.

"You think I'm insane," she said gravely, "You think I have lost my mind and need to be soothed out of it."

"It doesn't matter what I thought back then," Esther replied, too quickly, "I just want-"

Catherine interrupted her.
"You think I'm a crazed girl, whose hand you need to hold when she looks under her bed for monsters. I do not care. I did not want you here."

Esther had the audacity to flinch, her gaze now shifting into something like horror.

"But now you have a first row seat to watch me prove you wrong," she hissed, unlocking the door and pushing it open harshly.

If they wanted to continue fighting, the gaping darkness shut them both up.

Of course, none of them would ever admit it, but both felt the shift in the air. The looming threat. The smell coming from downstairs that was ever so slightly... off.

Before Esther could start rationalizing, Catherine took the lead to go inside, and again, Esther followed.

In front of the stairs, there was only an old oil lamp, and she felt stupid that she hadn't realized how dark a place hidden in a graveyard could possibly prove to be.

Esther had matches in hand before Catherine could even think about giving up.

Esther lit the lamp, trying to force a careful smile onto her face.

"There's still time to turn around," Catherine said, only now realizing how sour, how different her voice sounded.
This time, she almost deflated at Esther's caring look.
"I'm not gonna."

"Fine," she answered, closing the door, leaving only the small light of the lamp to illuminate them and the stairs that suddenly seemed further away.

She didn't let her hesitation deter her, and Esther was clearly too desperate to please to say anything about it.
It truly was too late. So down she went.

She still wasn't able to place the smell, even though it got more pungent. It was hard to see further than your hand, and the fact that she could not see what was waiting down there made her grow uneasy at last.

Her hand found the wall, trying to find some sense of comfort, but it felt cold, and slightly sticky.

Their breath quickened, then stopped at the same time as the smell got too pungent to ignore.

Finally, she could place it.
Rot.

At least Esther had the prudence to stay silent. Catherine didn't know if she would've had the strength not to lash out then, and she was tired of feeling even the slightest bit of guilt.

The stairs barely made any noise. Neither did they as they finally descended the stairs that lead into a small room that was, at last, illuminated.

Well, maybe it shouldn't have been. If her feet were still working, she might've ran back up the stairs.

Not that it would've changed anything.

"Dear god," Esther whimpered, but Catherine barely listened.

The room was a mess. A nightmare, even.

For some reason, she looked down at her hand before she gave herself the chance to take in the room.

She moved the palm of the hand she had slid along the wall towards her and watched dried blood snow down in flakes.

Her tongue was too heavy to speak, and Esther could only gag as they looked around the room, both not daring to move for different reasons.

Bones. Flesh, providing the rotting smell. Blood, everywhere, of course. A neatly stacked assortment of weapons. Body parts in an equally diverse spread.
She could not look away. She could not reply to Esther panicking at last.

All while she was almost offended at the fact that Alastor hidden he was messy in nature after all.

No wonder a housekeeper did not tell on people breaking in.

Lies upon lies upon lies. No order. Almost.

"You said you supect gang involvement," Esther spoke up, her voice thin in horror, "Gangs know how to clean up after themselves, Cathy."

Cathy stared at something that seemed to stare back. Esther whimpered again as Catherine pulled the lamp out of hands to finally move, get closer to a face she recognized.

Air escaped her in a sharp thrill as she recognized Mr. Fitch.

It took Esther longer to realize, and a scream escaped her, then.

"Oh god. I'm sorry Cathy, I'm so, so sorry- I didn't believe you, I should've listened, God-"

Esther's voice faded into the abyss as thoughts, memories, fears finally snapped into place.

She cooled, calmed, was barely breathing as she realized what it all meant.

You haunt me, and you're not even dead yet.

All this time. Years, at this point. Lies, fears, people perished. The look he'd given Mr. Fitch. His carefully constructed sob story about his mother.
All this time. It was all even worse.

And yet.

She almost dropped the lamp as Esther whirled her around in panic.

"I should have never doubted you," Esther said, "I oughta- we need to go. Do you know what we uncovered? All these people murdered... I can't believe it- we need to go to the police- I don't wanna imagine what could've happened to you!"

Catherine felt nothing, neither good nor bad, as Esther hugged her, her entire body shaking, unable to smell her perfume over the overpowering sweet smell of decay.

She felt Mr. Fitch was still staring at her, and the maggots right along with him.

"But I'm not," she mumbled to herself, "I'm not."

Esther grabbed her arms softly, the horror on her face intesifying.
"What are you talking about?"

Catherine shook her head.

She thought of last night. Him. On his knees. Her fear. Her begging. The gun she should've used, but didn't. The connection of their bodies, the only thing making sense in the overwhelming sea of dread.

His name on her lips. His hands on her throat.
Not yet.

She heard Esther call her the wrong name over and over, but her mind slipped, raced, as if something had snapped, severed, making thoughts and feelings not match anymore.

Three favors. At a time of my choosing. It ends with your rise, your fall. I need you to come, I need you to stay, one more favor, then you're free. I hate the way you make me feel. I need your feelings in the palm of my hand. How vulnerable it can make one. The delusion to own, to obsess, to possess. I can't, I just can't- haunting, preying, devouring. Tell me you want me, and maybe, just maybe, it is enough. Is it enough? You haunt me, and you're not even dead yet. A loaded gun with bullets in them, you should not keep a loaded gun, don't be silly, no bullets fired yet. Not dead yet. I cannot stay, why leave me?
Why?

Why.

She knew why.

"I need to leave," she told Esther, barely able to hold eye contact.

The fear in her friend's face had been replaced by pure terror, and Catherine needed to wonder what exactly she said out loud.

"Home," she explained, as if that cleared anything up, "I need to go home."

Did this prove the existence of God at last? Did it prove her insanity, or his weakness?

Did it even make a difference?

Did she live on borrowed time? Did she care?

Esther followed her diligently, slowly giving up to get something sensible out of her, yet not leaving her side.

As if something could happen to her now. She wanted to laugh. She did not.

If she was unharmed, someone else had to be.

Her understanding cost her sanity at last, she feared, but suddenly, she saw so clearly, she did not need her mind.

At the first possible oppurtunity, she bought a newspaper off a boy.

She fumbled with it, hands shaking, but did not have to look long to find what she suspected.

The boy was barely out of sight as she chucked the newspaper into the next bin, just to avoid more people seeing the tragic, missing, bloodcurdling face on the front page.

This was all wrong.

She kept on walking, pace fastening as Esther caught her arm again.

Catherine wanted to thrash against it, but did not know how to.

She'd remembered last night, but not now. Strange. Silly.

"We need to get to the police," Esther urged, "Or to Theo. You can't go home, not when-"

"Don't tell me what to do," Catherine calmly interrupted her, "Either come with me, or leave."
"It's not safe! This is serious. Please."

How did one order thoughts so fleeting? Collect the pieces of something so shattered?

She did not recognize herself as she pulled Esther closer, grabbing her harshly, her nails digging into her cheap, thin clothes.

"I gave you your choices," she stated, Esther's eyes widening at the intensity, "Leave, if you want to. But if you go to the police, I swear- I will give you something to worry about."

It was strange, to have someone fear you. She recognized the look fleetingly, pushed back into memories, but not being able to hold onto them.

At least Esther stopped to fight back. At least she was finally silent.

At least she was finally right.

Chapter Text

Time stopped making sense as Catherine returned home, despite Esther's best efforts to convince her otherwise.

She was pushed, pulled, told where to sit in her own space, and as she listened, behaved while waiting for Esther to get ahold of Theo, she felt so sick of it all. She waited for Esther to come back, never thinking of taking off her large, pompous coat for several reasons. She waited for Theo to arrive. She listened to their blind, stupid panic, sat nicely propped up, and while she'd avoided the worst, she was disappointed, enraged at the fact that apparently, it was all she could do. That now, her mouth sealed itself shut.

She wanted them to stop talking, to stop listening, but figured she couldn't afford to, just in case even came close to uttering any suggestion about the police again.

Esther didn't seem to dare to. Good.

All there was to do was to stare out of her large living room window and chase thoughts around her utterly empty head.
She could not too long at the both of them. Strange, that she only now realized how out of place they looked. How out of place she felt now, inbetween them.

Something had shifted, broken, resurfaced inside her.

But it all felt so... incomplete. Lacking something vital.

Esther tried a nervous laugh, and clearly hated it. She'd not recovered, and was distraught, only proving to Catherine that clearly, she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere.

She was as calm as they came.

"Maybe we got it all wrong," she rambled, "Maybe there's a logical explanation for it all. We got it wrong. The detective got it wrong."

Theo sounded tired. She realized she'd barely asked him a question about himself in over a year.

"I don't think there's much room for interpretation," he said, trying to be the calming force against Esther's lunacy and Catherine's apathy noone dared to mention, "I know it's hard, but I fear you got to accept what you've seen. What it means."

"But... he's been so good to us," she whispered, "To Cathy. It can't be true. It just can't. To imagine, what it means-"

Catherine stared at her legs as Esther remembered the scene down in those catacombs, another sob escaping her.
How silly. Such a big, extravagant coat, just to wear a pair of simple pants underneath.

Good for running, she'd thought. As if it mattered. As if the shoes wouldn't have stopped her.

She chewed the inside of her cheek, wondering if that's why pants were so frowned upon where she'd come from.
It was harder to keep you stationary.
Statuesque.

She swallowed, looking up to find something else to ponder over, meeting Esther's panicked gaze halfway, having to realize that she hadn't answered, or even listened, to whatever Esther had asked.

Esther seemed to hardly recognize her. Like she was close to being afraid of her.

"What's the matter with you," she wondered breathlessly, "Why are you so-"

Theo put his arm around her, trying to calm her before she could finish.
Before she could be insulting.

"She might just be in shock," Theo suggested.

"Do not talk about me like I'm not there," Catherine finally snapped, and it was almost satisfying to see them both flinch.

Maybe she was paralyzed, hardly able to act on anything, but she was tired of all this pushing and pulling.

She'd taken her first breath. Found her own voice. She would not be made smaller than she was. Not anymore.
Well, almost her own. But how could you be loud, breathe, when the air seemed to be gone, sucked out the heavens, nowhere to be found?

"Well, what do you think, then," Esther shot back.

Maybe the end of their friendship had been for the best. Clearly, they got on each other's nerves.

Catherine looked up at them, her face stern, close to bored.
"It doesn't matter."

Esther's utter disbelief made it look like her eyes were about to pop out. Catherine felt the need to look away.

"It is all over the papers already," Catherine explained her statement, even though she did not want to, "It is only a matter of time, until it is all over."

Only after did she realize the tremendous pain in her chest, caused by her shallow, barely audible breathing. It felt as if her lungs were about to cave in on themselves.

She would not speak of it. Feigning apathy was the better, more sensible alternative to whatever came close to the truth.

Just like that. All over. And all she got to do was to sit around and wait.

And suddenly, she felt like wasted space.

Theo's face turned more serious now.

"Cathy," he said, his voice grave, "It will not be over so soon. You have to be aware of your... connection. If you stay here, there will be an interest in what you have to say."

He met his eyes across the room as he still patted Esther's shoulder, and somehow, she was surprised she found something akin to understanding in his eyes.
If only it would be enough.

"So what," she lied, "In that case, I am clueless. Blindsighted. A silly little woman. Whatever works best."

Theo's face washed over in worry, Esther's in disappointment. She could hardly look straight at both of them.

"You also come from a line of work that is illegal," Theo said, now also barely able to look into her eyes, "Chances are, policemen rather not listen to you. In any way that matters. If you cannot help."

Catherine's chest tightened further.

The last thing she knew was a reminder. Of what once was.
Of what might come. Of what might be lost.

Esther seemed to have gained her composure back.
"Whatever you choose," Esther said, "We'll be here."

To her dismay, Catherine realized that this statement didn't mean as much to her as it should. She still felt empty.

She hadn't realized her heart had turned so cold. But yet. She did not have the energy to feel guilty about it.

It took all her strength to circle back, again, and again, to her thoughts, trying to find reason, logic, something to do.
She thought about her failure. That if she'd made Alastor stay, this situation would've been different.
She wouldn't have turned around.

Or maybe, that was was she was doing now. She was so tired. Still hurting, too.

Not that it mattered. Any of it. Her, Esther, Theo.

Not when the world, her wold, was regurtitating itself over, and over, and over.

"That doesn't make any sense," Catherine heard herself say, "You want me to go. To leave you."

Was she even speaking to them anymore?

She'd probably ruffled Esther's feathers again, but never got to take the brunt of it, as the phone started ringing in this exact moment.

Catherine was on her feet in an instant, so quickly in fact that her vision blurred.

Of course, all of a sudden, her energy had returned. All over a hunch, a sinking feeling in her stomach she almost welcomed.

Theo and Esther stared at her, wide-eyed, as if there were a question if she would pick up or not.

Maybe it was justified. But at the end of the day, it was always about the gamble, wasn't it?

Catherine walked past them without a word, and at least this time, they didn't push and pull, or tried to be clever, or condescending, or caring.

They just watched her walk away. Choose differently.
Choose purgatory, likely.

On shaking legs, she made her way into the hallway.
Even before she picked up, she felt her composure change into a strange mix of being less withdrawn, yet finally feeling herself waking up from her slumber.

Which had the unfortunate side affect that the panic that had lain dormant before, lost its shackles.

She was not surprised to hear the voice on the other end. In fact, for some reason, she was glad.

"Dearest Catherine," Alastor greeted, his voice lacking even over the phone, "How glad I am to hear your voice."

She was almost happy to be so overwhelmed, hardly knowing in which direction to turn herself to.
Anger. Relief. Desperation.

Maybe it would be best to stay neutral. At least until the truth took over.

"I know everything," she simply replied, and the weight lifted off her shoulder almost made her lose balance.

Alastor, on the other side, wherever he was, chuckled, and suddenly, the hatred that she'd been feeling returned, just to fizzle into oblivion as soon as he spoke again.

"Of course," he agreed, "I have caused quite a stir, haven't I?"
His calmness was eerie to say the least, but she was done with being intimidated.

"No. I do not mean that," she corrected, trying to remain calm herself, "I saw it. All of it. Mr. Fitch. Your... trophies."

He laughed, and she suspected it was because of the shake in her voice until he hummed in understanding.
"Ah." How was he able to sound so vulnerable now? "I see. So that's what you've been conspiring over behind my back. I applaud you."

The stark difference in person hit her by surprise. Last night, he'd blamed her. Been angry. And now, it seemed like all of that had never happened.

As if it didn't matter.

She tried to disguise her hurt. She was likely failing.

"This isn't funny," she snarled, "This is serious. They're after you. You're in serious danger."

Yes, she was failing.

"But that's what you wanted," he wondered, "Isn't it."

She felt like a stranded fish, images of the private detective emerging, wondering if he- no, there was no way. He'd been suspicious, yes but- he would not betray a paying customer for the off-chance of justice, wouldn't he.

Catherine felt sick.

"You wanted me dead," she changed the subject, "That was the plan all along. The favors were a ruse. Change me, mold me, so I become a better victim. You wanted to kill me."

Saying it out loud at last didn't exactly make her nausea better.
At first, he stayed silent. Contemplating.

Of course, he would find a way to turn it all around, to make her think she was insane.

But she turned out to be wrong again.

"Yes," confirmed, no games played, "That was the plan."

She exhaled, in relief, in pain, she did not know.
"And yet, you didn't."

"And yet, I didn't," he agreed, the tone so hard to place. What was honesty worth, if noone would admit the entire truth?
Maybe it was time to be brave.

"Why," she demanded.

Now it was his turn to take a deep, shaky breath.

"I failed," he admitted, and at his words, her core was turning circles, "You became something I was not ready to let go of. My own game turned against me. Very clever indeed."

"Stop," she breathed, "This has gone too far. Forget about winning and losing. Let William go, and come home. Please."

A small purr of satisfaction escaped his lips, but she knew it wasn't enough before he ever answered.
"You know I cannot do that."

By now, she was fighting tears. Had she any mind to spare, she would've realized that she was losing her mind.
But the only thing she could think of was that it could not end like this.

Because after everything, he was not a part she could give up, either.

"Why," she asked, pleaded, but his silence was answer enough.

His voice was too calming, too soft. She wished he was here, ready to hurt her again, let her taste the consequences of her own actions.

"At some point, we all fail," he explained, distgustingly soothing, "Maybe there is a way back up, maybe not. At least it's thrilling. Worth a story. A thing of tragedy."

Her eyes burned, and she grabbed the phone so hard, it felt like she was choking it. Choking some sense into the other person, maybe.

"Well, that won't do," she croaked, realizing how desperate, how stupid she sounded, "At least come back and finish the job."

His laughter almost sounded beautiful.

"Is that what you'd want," he wondered, "After escaping my grasp so masterfully?"

"I don't care," she cried out, not caring if Theo and Esther heard her anymore, "Come back, and do your worst, for all I care. Just come back. There has to be a way out of this."

He hummed, again. She hated it.
"You still want to be by my side," he asked, "After seeing, knowing it all?"

And suddenly, the murder of her husband wasn't her most shameful confession anymore.
"Yes."

Her voice was small, barely audible, but of course, he still heard her.
As always.

"And still, you manage to surprise me," he said after a small pause, "I see now. Why I couldn't."

Now, she had to laugh, too.
"And it's still not enough to sway you," she observed, "Even posing as a lamb for slaughter doesn't do the trick."

"And there I thought you would be relieved," he muttered, "To be rid of me at last."

She couldn't have described the sound leaving her lips, even if she tried.

"You don't get to walk away from this," she stated, in anger, maybe, "You're not giving up, pretending it's a great sacrifice. We're not done."

He kept pretending this didn't mean ruin. Death, possibly.
But then, so did she.

"We're not," he agreed, too carelessly, too relaxed, "That is one of the reasons I'm calling."

Misplaced disappointment surged through her.
Of course he wasn't calling simply to hear her voice.

"I'd like to call in my last favor," he continued, and her stomach dropped deeper than hell, "If there is a way to set this whole mess straight, it is tied to you."

Her lungs hurt again, as she released all the air they could possibly hold.
"Tell me."

"I hate to drag you into this," he carefully said.
"I'll do anything."

Time to be brave. Time to be stupid. And utterly lost.
If he wallowed in the sound of her surrender at last, he didn't show it.
Business as usual.

But somehow, she knew her desperate approval stirred something in him. A desperation to please, maybe.
It wasn't enough, it seemed.

"I accidentally put myself into the spotlight," he reviewed, "If this is to not crash and burn, I need something else to take it away. A distraction. And I need you to make it happen. Whatever it takes."

Crash and burn.

She felt herself grow even more lightheaded.
"Whatever it takes," she repeated, "What do you need me to do?"

"Something scandalous," he sighed, "I'm sorry to drag you down with me."

At this point, she couldn't tell how genuine he was even able to be.

His voice was warm, and she wondered if he even knew the scope of his own failure.

The scope of her willingness to destroy all there was.
"I'll do anything," she said, "If it means you come back to me."

"You know just what to say," he observed, once again, and her blood ran hot at the reminder.

"And you made me. Just how you wanted," she replied, and she wondered if there was a bone of pride in her left.

Barely audible, yet heard, another voice emerged on the other line.
Or rather, a scream.

She knew it meant he had to go, and she wanted to hate herself for the fact that the horrid background noises didn't even faze her.

Didn't deter her in any way.

"You had another reason," she quickly chimed in before he had a chance to say goodbye, "To call. Tell me."

"Admittedly," he chuckled, "I just wanted to soothe my ego. To know, if at least, I succeeded in some way. To know, if you would miss me, in any way."

Who knew, if she should laugh, or cry?

"Remember when you said how you look for me in everything," she asked, taking a deep breath, "I thought about it a lot, I could not help it. I replay it, again and again, and there's only one way to make it make sense: It was my soul, calling out to you."

"What a shame," he said, "To have this come to an end. Just as it was about to be interesting."

She hated him for his nonchalance. But not long enough.
"Where are you," she asked, demanded even.

"One last favor. Are you willing to go through with it," he shot back, and this habit, this stupid habit of replying to a question with another pummeled her, reminded of quarrels past, and soon, long gone.

But she would not end like this. Not on a note like this.

"Where are you," she repeated, "I'll do my worst. Just tell me where to find you."

"Home," he replied, his giggle eerie, "Where the beasts go. The green, dark abyss."

At this point, she was ready to perish. Be nothing. Be all he ever wanted. Not complete, truly apart, in every sense of the word.

"Please," she begged once more, tears now ready to pour, "Don't do this to me."

"This is goodbye, my dear," Alastor answered, making her wonder if she was ever able to read him at all, "At least for now."

"No," she pressed, "I'll do it. Just tell me where you are. Don't let me-"

And with that, he hung up.
Reality shifted. Focus shifted.

To think. That this was the end.

Chapter Text

How racing thoughts and sweaty hands could suddenly equal a calm, collected mind, Catherine did not know.

She hardly knew anything anymore. And only remembered his words.

Crash and burn.

One more, and then you're free.

What an odd feeling, to know this to be untrue.

She would never be free again. Not that she thought she ever had been. Only that strangely this time, it felt like a choice.

Well, unless she failed, that was. But that was an entirely different definition of freedom. As was Alastor's to hers, likely.

But she wasn't willing to give up just yet.

It didn't matter, that his outlook was so glum. This would not be the first time she'd fled out of an impossible situation.

And where she had made her choice, for better or worse- he would not get one.

It was entirely too easy to lie to Esther and Theo, about needing rest, time to think, adorned with all the glittering of false tears she could muster.

While they still urged her to leave, to go, to run before someone knocked and started asking questions, they were understanding enough.

Or maybe they finally had enough of her antics.

Esther was already half out the door before Theo turned back towards her, a serious expression on his face.

He grabbed her by the arm, caringly, non-threatening, yet her mind was quick to remind her of dangers past.

She breathed through the horrid, the beautiful memories, the need to defend herself, and looked up at him as relaxed as she could muster.

As if he didn't already think she'd lost her mind.

"If you need anything," he said under his breath, as if Esther was not supposed to hear, "And I mean anything. You come find me. I'll be at work the entire rest of the day."

Catherine feigned shock, innocence, confusion, whatever it took.

At least the confusion was real. He'd lowered his voice, turned so serious, that she had reason to believe he did mean just about anything.

If it was dangerous or not. And after all her failures as a friend, even if theirs were arguably worse, she hadn't expected such loyalty instilled in his conscience.

She batted her eyes at him regardless, trying to push down the warm feeling in her chest in favor of an act.
"Thank you, but me sitting-"

"Stop it," Theo demanded, interrupting her, "I know you're planning something, and before you get yourself into trouble even further, come find me."

She frowned, swallowing down sour feelings, offended at the fact that after all this, she still was a terrible liar.
But that couldn't be.

Her heart dipped, sour feelings now rising up like bile in her throat.

Maybe it was the distance to Alastor, that made her lose all her newfound talents.
How depressing.

Catherine simply nodded in defeat, gaze lowered so Theo wouldn't see her conflict and disappointment. Clearly, she wasn't able to hide it anymore.

It wouldn't do. She could not revert back now, to an old, weaker self, waiting for someone, something, to come and save her.

Not when she was needed. Not when there was still time to fix things.

But feelings, fears were already here, coming to knock at her mind's door.

As Theo and Esther finally left, she didn't have much time for panic. But it seemed that the panic did not care, rummaging through her mercilessly, making her pace around the apartment in nothing short of lunacy. Making her finally take off her coat she was drowning in, on account of the cold sweat slick all over her body.

She felt like a fish ashore, gasping for air as her mind raced, trying to grasp at something, anything that would make a decent plan.

But all she came up with was rubbish.

Thoughts, memory slipped as she found herself in her bathroom, heaving over the sink.

She hated Alastor in that moment, tasking her with something so seemingly impossible. She wanted to focus on it, tell herself there was still time to run, that it was too late anyways- that there was no scandal large, extreme enough to get out of any of this, and that she should not get involved.

Instead, she listened to her rugged breath, and watched her chest rise and fall, up and down, up and down.

It took some, too much time for her to gain the courage to look at herself in the mirror.

She looked horrid. She almost couldn't focus on the dead, crazed look inside her eyes, since everything else was so distracting.

For one, her neck was bruised beyond recognition.

Fingerprints, lined up one after the other.

Only now did she notice that swallowing hurt.
She felt stupid. She felt dizzy.

It should've told her everything she needed to know. But then she remembered how little she'd felt any pain.

That she was still breathing.
Something shifted.

Then, and only then, did she allow herself, after all this time, to think of her husband.

His cocky smile. His commanding voice, too loud to be pleasant. His drinking habit, spiraling into violence, as if he wasn't predisposed already.

And Catherine had been his. To use, to abuse, as if it was second nature to hurt the one you swore to protect. Live, and breathe in a house that was turned against you. A prison.

The nicest sound she'd ever heard from him. A little, surprised gasp right as the knife went through his stomach, once, then twice, then too many times to count.

It had felt good. She knew that now. That finally, after years of standing down, of lowering her gaze, of taking what had been dished out, all while blaming herself, it had been freeing to look at him and think, I hold the power now.

The same cloth.

The woman staring back at her had no need to be afraid.

She'd survived worse.

And sometimes, you had to survive, against all odds if necessary, against better judgement, when everything told you to give up-
Because only then, could you start living.

This was the last chance she would get. She knew as much.

Because if anything, all of this looking back at her- it was proof that she was finally alive.

She would not go back to it. Being an accessory. A decorative prop to stand by, if you needed it.

Now, she was whole. With fear, sin, love, everything.
She would not go back.

No matter what had to crash.
Had to burn.

It was decided then.

Catherine left the gun at home, still unmoved on the nightstand, a gentle reminder of the stakes.

Or maybe, how unprepared she truly was. But she didn't think of that.

Her mind whirled, quick yet forgetful, all while so utterly focused, determined.
The plan almost assembled itself.

Catherine knew she was being stared at, the coat now open, putting her throat on display for all to see, but she hardly acknowledged it, still trying to solve Alastor's little riddle from earlier.

Because all this was useless, if she did not know where to find him.

She hadn't realized. How addicting it was. To be around him, play game over game, only to breathe and find that after it all, you finally got to be someone. To be heard, and seen, to be regarded as something worthwhile. Precious.

Worth ruining your life over.

Not to sit and wait and play nice. Instead, challenge, fight, haunt.

Clearly, it had hit her with such force, she was willing to finally shed herself of any morality she'd had left.

And maybe, she would not even miss it, she thought as she finally arrived, the housekeeper ready to let her in like so many times before.

But this time, unfortunately, it had to be different.

They never shared more than some smiles and hushed words, but now as Catherine barged in, she waltzed directly into her.

She'd never be so demanding. Maybe even scary. With a loud voice, Catherine informed her of the current situation. Wondering, pushing the poor woman to explain herself, as to why she was still here, that she would get in serious trouble if she stayed any longer, that she could consider herself fired.

Catherine did not let her speak much, donning all the authority she did not truly possess.

But she needed her to leave somehow.

The woman's face was a mixture of gladness and horror, as her eyes switched back and forth between Catherine's face, and her neck.

Somehow, Catherine felt as if the woman was concerned. Wanted to ask. To help.

Only then did she realize, inbetween the words she hadn't managed to cut off fully, that the housekeeper's accent sounded eerily familiar.

It sounded like the home she did not remember. Catherine's stomach turned, suddenly suspicious, trying to remember since when exactly this woman had been employed.

If this was some strange kind of coincidence, even though she could not get herself to fully believe it. Not when it came to Alastor, and his vast mind of endless mindgames.

Even so. She did not need this kind of connection, or help, for that matter. Still, it left a sting, to shoo her away now.

Like she'd truly forgotten where she'd come from.
But it didn't matter where she'd come from. Only where she was going.

She slipped into his house, and while her heart pounded, and her mind was split in two because of this confusing conversation, she was more focused than ever.

First, she opened all the windows, if only a crack. Tried not to get distracted by the sleek, dark wood of the bar in the corner of her eye, wondering if somehow, the glasses were still in disarray.

She hurried upstairs, the shoes she stupidly hadn't changed now starting to hurt a little.

She needed to be careful. Not to slip, with these soles.
Once again, she was confronted with the fact how well she was able to navigate the house.

So much time spent in his arms.
So much time spent snooping around.

Which was exactly why she knew that everything she needed, was right there.

Alastor should've been more careful. One walk through this house was incriminating enough on its own.

Time warped as she found herself back in the room where she'd first aquired the key she should've never touched. She smiled, for some reason, realizing it was still right where she left it.

But this time, her hands reached for something else.

With shame, she noticed her hands shaking as she reached for one gun after the other of this ridiculous collection, cocking the barrel, and emptying out all and every smudge of gun powder she could muster, collecting it all in a small container.

She looked down on her hands, as a stray bullet fell into it.
So much for not keeping loaded guns.

Her fingertips were blackened, dusty by the time she was finished, and as silly as she was, she thought of the fact that she would leave handprints everywhere, if she was not careful.

As if it would still matter in a manner of minutes.

How much had Alastor truly rubbed off on her? She was so calm, it should've scared her.

It didn't. It only made her curse him. Wonder where he was. Who he was, to leave her alone in this.

After everything.
After finally making her feel whole.

It would not end this way. This, this was the beginning.
If he made her come to life, then he was the one who had to deal with it.

Only when she stepped into his bedroom did she waver again.

Catherine swallowed. It hurt.

It was as if she could feel the sheets on her skin again, as if she could feel his gaze again, devouring, yet devoted, and so, so horrified at his own want.

No. Need.

She wanted to throw herself onto them, hide between the sheets, wait for him to return, tell her that everything was perfectly fine. That he didn't make this huge of a mistake, that William Fern would not come back to ruin it all.

But this was the one thing that had not changed: no one was coming to save her.
Not him, nor Theo, nor God.

It was up to her. And fate was waiting, curled around the corner, watching.

This room didn't mean much. If anything, it was for the best if it ceased to exist, and the house with it.

Less evidence to sift through. Less dots to connect.
So she got to work.

Catherine set down the container, touching the wooden floor.
Waxed. Oiled.
Good.

Then, she rolled up the carpet, removing it from the floor and pushing part of it onto the bed.

She was sweating, then, hands slick.
Of course, it reminded her of last night. Sweat of exhaustion, or fear, or both, who was to say?

It was almost as if she still felt his hand, buried into the meat of her thigh.

Her breath got shallow as she collected one gas lamp after the other, emptying their contents onto the bed, the bridge that was the carpet, the floor, in bedroom and hallway, just for good measure.

To think. That it was still the middle of the day.

Her steps were small, yet heavy, trying to avoid slipping. But it was good. To drag it all around the house.

Even better, if someone had seen her enter. As scary as it was, to now have no way out of association, it also meant more scandal.

More distraction. Time bought.
Hopefully, that was.

Finally, she stood before the bed. One last time, she touched the sheets, a sigh, a sob escaping her as she dumped the gunpowder right onto it, sorry for the mess, sorry for her pain, a neat little black mound, a void she was falling into, knowing that now, there was no way back.

Maybe they would blame the housekeeper. Poor woman. Unfortunately, she did not have it in her heart to care as much as she should.

On her way out, she grabbed some matches from the nightstand.

What a horrid time, to have shaking hands.

She positioned herself in the doorframe, the maximum amount of distance she allowed herself to have.

Her hands were too slick now, and the first flick of a match failed miserably, burning her hand in the process. It did not hurt.

After all, she'd felt worse. And enjoyed it. Shamelessly.

The second attempt was successful, luckily; the match, alight with flame, soared through the air, landing on the bed.

First, she heard a light pop, watched a quick light appear, then disappear, the smell of rotten eggs momentarily filling the air.

Only then did the ground shake. Bright light assaulted her eyes, and she staggered back, the heat carressing her face.
For a moment, she did not move, starstruck, a deer in headlights as the flames started eating away.

Stories of childhood reemerged. Of hellfire, all consuming, painful, neverending dread.

But suddenly, hell didn't seem so daunting anymore.

So what, if God seemed fit to punish her for all she did? She'd been punished all her life, before a thought of sin had ever entered her mind, her mother trying to beat it, pray it out of her before she ever could form her own thoughts.

Her father, absent, smoking in the shed, glumly feeling sorry for himself. Her husband, punishing her for trying to be good, be kind, a good wife. Forcing her onto the bed, face down, nose bloodied. And then, as she finally ran, Dirk, feigning care, selling her off. The pain in her body. Men, one more perverse than the other, asking for things noone should ever think of, forcing her to sin she so desperately tried to be forgiven for. One mask, after the other, pretending to be something she was not. William Fern's own mask slipping, a gentleman that wasn't one, violence in his eyes, akin to so many men before him. Ready to ruin everything, just over being slighted. For not getting to use her, over and over. Like so many before him. And she had let them, for the sake of survival, never really feeling alive. Wanting to be a saint, feeling like a monster.

Holy. Monstrous. It did not matter. Maybe, there had never been a difference between the two.

Her father. Her husband. Dirk. William Fern. Alastor.

If she was doomed, it had never been her doing. And if she was to be punished for it, well- she was tired of apologizing. Of feeling guilty for things she did not, should not feel guilty for.

Too late, too slowly, the panic of experiencing a very real fire that could very much burn her settled in.
If she burned, then not today.

Flames were already licking at the doorframe as she hurried down the stairs, imagining she was being chased.
And she would keep running. Until finally, things started to make sense again.
Until she was finally free.

The past burned down, herself ready to look ahead, run as far as possible, leave it all behind to hopefully, start anew.
Together.

Maybe it was naive. She held onto the thought like a madwoman, like she'd held him, just hours before. Wishing she had not let go. Wishing she'd never held onto him in the first place.

But at least, she did not feel guilty about it anymore.
To be finally seen. In all she was.

And she just knew. That he would never shy away from it.
Neither would she. Their fates, their souls were intertwined now, irreversibly tied together, and that was something noone could undo.

And she for one, would rather burn down everything else.
Evidently.

She looked up, and for a moment, she was worried her setup would not be enough, but then she felt the heat through the ceiling, the smoke filling her lungs, causing her to cough.

Of course, things always seemed more sturdy than they were. In reality, almost everything was fragile.

Houses. Earth. Bodies.

Sanity.

She hurried to one of the previously opened windows, to feed the fire, her delusions, and she remembered how she'd dug her nails bloody on the hardened summer floor, pieces of her husband, taken apart with another nifty kitchen tool, burying the parts just deep enough so the wildlife would dig it up, take him away, far away where he could not hurt her, deep in the woods where noone would bother to look.

She stilled, in shock, in recognition, in utter foolishness.
Because suddenly, she remembered. Herself, in the bed she'd just burned, with him all around her, within her, surrounded by his smell, his taste.

Bliss. She'd felt drunk that night, and more forward than usual, fully indulging in the foreign feeling of true intimacy.

No matter the consequence. Her plan to expose him so far back in her mind, it had been almost forgotten. How she wished to go back to it now.

How she wished it had ended there.

But that was not it. She remembered, how she hadn't stopped asking questions, maybe trying to rip away at his carefully put-up walls, to see more of him underneath, underneath his skin, his mind, or maybe, just to hear his voice go on and on, to drown all else out, guilt, or fear, or the fact that she'd felt truly divine.

Of course, it had been a cat-and-mouse-game, as always- and yet, one little story, she'd been able to pry out of him.

Of his past. His mother. The errands they'd run, way back when he was nothing more than a boy of no importance.

A place in the woods. Near water. Explained in such great detail, she'd basically seen it right in front of her inner eye.
She had no time to wonder if this story, these nights had all been part of his elaborate plan, to make her lower her guard, just so she would beg on her knees for his attention as he snapped her neck with a loving, twisted smile.

But there was no time. She knew where he was. She could stop the madness, before it was too late. There was a chance.

It seemed like she had to take Theo up on his offer, even though she did not feel good about it.

Something snapped upstairs, and the creaking told her not to waste even more time.

She slipped through the window, brand-new, crazed energy flowing through her veins.

Just like that, their deal was done.

And Catherine was about to, dying to walk right back into it.
No matter the consequence. Heaven, or hell.

For better or worse.

Chapter Text

trigger warning: graphic violence! and also mention of abuse, and cannibalism, so pls be warned!

The clock was ticking, down, down, down.
And time was running out. That much he knew.

He clung to images, memories, reminders, trying to convince himself that at least in some ways, he'd won.

Alastor wondered where she was, what her twisted little mind had come up with. Oh, how he wished he could witness it.

First, he'd made her surrender her body. Then, her mind. At least. At last.

It was hard to forget what it cost him. The sun was setting, disappearing, making way for a cold, dark night.

And the last remainders of his sanity right with it. She'd taken them, pried them out of his hands, with her sweet, concerned voice.

He was too far gone to feel fear. Now, he only felt his skin burning right where she'd tried to fight him. Made him bleed right back.

To think. That this was the end. He wasn't ready to let her win, to run along into another life, another's arms. He'd rather die.

But then, that was out of his control.

Maybe it was tenderness he'd felt. Maybe he'd let her win, spared her for no sake other than hers- out of warm, inexplicable feelings.
Pathetic, weak, feelings.

Adjusting to this new normal was as nauseating as it was dangerous, it seemed.

Well. Now, he would give everything to feel her throat falter under his grip again.

The alternative was so boring to play with.

The alternative had been brabbling about bribes, about justice for too long. In fact, since he'd dragged him into this old, abandoned cabin, he hadn't had the grace to shut up.

Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose harshly.

"Pray tell," he wondered, voice tired, "What part of your face do I have to break so you finally stop talking? It might not look like it, but I am a little busy at the moment."

"You won't get away with this," William Fern sneered, "My father is a very powerful man. Soon, someone will notify him. And then it's hell on earth for you, I promise."

Alastor rolled his eyes.
"So you said."

"Unhand me this instant," William Fern demanded, "And maybe, someone will be merciful."

How ironic. To look down on someone so greatly, when all you could think of protecting you, was the shadow of your father.

It made him weak. Alastor had no such delusions.
Although his own shadow was always there, egging him on.

That he hadn't done enough yet. To finally be rid of it.
The memory. The shadows.

And to think. She was, at some point, willing to let this man touch her.

For that alone, he deserved all that was coming to him. Even though he would never understand.

Alastor sighed, closing in on William, making their plane of vision equal by dropping to a knee.

Power dynamics were clear enough. It was not lowering himself. Not anymore.

Not like last night. But then, he'd wanted it.
All he did. For her only.

"You misunderstand me greatly," Alastor muttered, grabbing William's jaw, contemplating how much force was needed to unhinge it, "I do not care. What will happen to me. And before your precious father arrives, well- you'll be long dead."

Alastor had to admit- William Fern was harder to break. He was a proud fellow, unlike Mr. Fitch, who had pissed himself on sight of his own demise.

His lips formed a thin line, fighting a cruel smile washing over his lips.

"All this," William managed to push through his teeth, "All this useless drama. For a whore."

Alastor sighed again. Tilted his head, eyes narrowed, corners of his mouth engaged.
He rose from the floor.

And with one swift sweep, broke William Fern's nose.

He'd needed that.

"You're not very good at this," Alastor commented, "You're supposed to beg me for your pathetic life, not insult the things I care about."

Rage shook his core, and it took the last of his restraints, of his mind, to not end it right there.

But he needed him to suffer. It needed to be worth it.

Replace the grand finale he'd been wanting, but continously ruined himself.

William flopped over, screaming in agony, and that made Alastor laugh.

If only he knew. What was still waiting for him.
A broken nose was nothing.

So William was pathetic, after all. Some broken bones were barely something to cry about.

It reeked of privilege.

Alastor inspected his hands, watching William's blood trickle down his wrist.

And wondered. If it would taste as sweet as Catherine's.
He doubted it. The memory alone was so mindnumbingly sweet, how her flesh had given away, the taste filling not only his mouth, but his entire body, all while she arched into it, barely aware of the way she displayed her body like a feast to be had.

He'd known even then. That there was no return from this. That all else, no matter how vile, would pale in comparison.
She would not cry over some broken bones.

Maybe she would beg for more.

Come back to me.
Oh, how he wished he could.

"You will not get away with this," William pressed, and Alastor scoffed.
"Again. None of my concern."

He turned on his heels, reaching down to his bag, and opting for more brute force.

It could wait. The insatiable desire for blood. It was time for snaps, and screams.

Alastor ignored William's threats, his insults, barely veiling the fear underneath.

"You know," he chuckled, "You remind me of someone I once knew."

The hammer lay heavy in his hands, and for a moment, he rested it on William's knee, who desperatly tried to scoot away on the chair he was tied to.

He let him, and continued to talk.
"He was just like you," Alastor explained, breath hitching as he stepped closer, "So concerned with status. Wealth. Kicking down as low as one can, just to feel something akin to power."

Alastor considered the weight of the hammer again before driving it down, shattering William's knee.

Well, he had been wrong. The screams were already getting on his nerves, and he hadn't even started.

How annoying. He had to raise his voice so much.

"Someone that felt so, so powerful," he continued, memories, rage flooding back with such force, it was almost enough to sweep him off his feet, "He put down women, violated her, just because he could. Because noone was stopping him. Take and take, choose violence, when they did nothing but choose kindness, even when they should not. Just like you. Cannot stand to be outshined by her, outsmarted by her, all because of your fragile, little, hurt ego. You're just like him."

William had the audacity to look confused, offended even.
It did not need to make sense to William.

This was his revenge. His reconciliation. That had been a long time coming, waiting around the corner, waiting to be seized.

For a moment, doubt squeezed his heart. He hadn't realized. How much she'd twisted him.

But then. He did not want to return to what was before. Half a life, a double life, try to find satisfaction in taking down men, just like him.

It wasnt enough anymore. He'd tasted heaven. Without realizing at first, she'd pried away his restraints, his chest open, the pain, the rage, free at last.

She'd seen it. And not shied away once. Even when she should.

And while she was at fault, for what rose from the ashes, he did not hate her for it anymore. He was not able to.

The cloth, it was a curtain she tore down, revealed what was there all along. Barely controlled restraint. Want. Need. For revenge. For her. For blood, and flesh, and her sweet, little whimpers as she surrendered herself to him. All the things he'd thought pathetic.

But it was to late. The stage was set.
Showtime.

This time, William tried to muffle his scream, as his other knee was shattered into pieces.

He spoke through his teeth, his tears.
"Hypocrite," he hissed, his voice a horrid reminder, a punch in the gut just because of the similarities that might just be imagined, "As if you and I are not the same."

"Wrong again," Alastor shot back,
"I'm much, much worse."

It was then Alastor had to shush him, pushing so much fabric into William's mouth, he almost unhinged his jaw, made it nearly impossible to breathe through his nose. To give him no chance to remind him again. With that strangely, horrifyingly similar voice.

But he just needed a little air. So he was concious for it all.
It was payback for more than trying to take Catherine away from him.
One bone at a time.

"She's mine," he whispered into William's ear, pulling his head back, exposing the throat he wanted to slit so badly, "You're not gonna take her from me, too."

Who he was talking to anymore, he did not know. It did not matter.

After making quick business of his ribs, he discarded the hammer, wanting the snap of the bone vibrating through his hands.

He put his foot up onto his thigh, using the entire force of his arm to break William's over his leg, like it was nothing more than a twig.

Reminding him of the feel of her thighs. How she had pushed only closer, no matter how much he clawed on her. Desire driving them so close, he wasn't sure how they were able to separate again.

It was then he wondered. If this wasn't enough anymore, barely enough to keep his needs satiated, what would be?
Would she be enough? The powerplay, the game they had grown so fond of? If he were to return to her, how long would it satisfy him, to ruin her, strip her of morality until she answered to nothing but him? Would he snap her neck, as soon as he was bored of her?

Was he even able to? Or was it just the other way around, and she would tire of him, and he would have to break her bones, just to keep her from leaving him?

How much could he consume of her, before there was nothing left? And what then? Then what?

But he knew. It wasn't a matter of want. He needed her, to breathe, to continue, if he wanted to or not. More than he ever needed anyone, his mother, the knowledge he'd won, his revenge.

And maybe, it was time to finally succumb. To the darkest. The feral needs.

To rip off the mask, and feed the animal underneath.

Would it be so bad? To turn out to be nothing more than that? A hungry animal, gnawing at its own skin, desperate to be let out?

To feel another's hand, that reached out to you, no matter how convincing your snarl was? To lean into it, to accept the chain, the hand, curl into her lap and be done with it? All for some comfort, a warm place by the fire?

He halted, a noise outside letting his head perk up.
Dogs. Far, yet close.

So the hunt had begun.

He smiled brilliantly at William Fern, entirely misshapen, his breath ragged, whistling pathetically in his lungs.

"I'm afraid we have to go," he told him, not expecting an answer, as he pulled out a knife, unshackling him, "Before someone ruins our fun."

He was glad he'd held back, now as he dragged William across the forest floor, knowing he left no trails of blood you might make out in the looming dark ascending on them at last.

At least not in significant amounts.

Later. A promise, an incentive to keep going.
In his soul, he knew it was too late to make plans. To scheme a way out of this. But the same part that still called out to her, held onto the misplaced hope.

To come back. Finish the job he refused.
To find peace. Who knew.

William's ragged breath, muffled sounds of pain irritated him. Strangely, it reminded him. Of the last moments of his mother, holding on herself, before death squeezed her tiny body, pulled her away from him.

How he'd felt like a little, defenseless boy then. And oh, how Catherine had used it against him, fooled him into leaning on her.

And then, he wasn't able to stop. Until he bent to her will only. How he hated that he did not hate it.

He slowed as the forest floor got muddier, and he heard water close by.

A resting place too serene for the likes of Mr. William Fern, but it was all he could work with.

He threw him, and was above him in an instant, knife in hand.

"Its strange," Alastor muttered, "You look just like him, too, when he died. Vengeful at the inevitable. Trying to hide the horror in your eyes."

William's eyes widened, surely trying to scream, his broken body not allowing him to try and crawl away.

"Luckily," Alastor continued, "This time, it is finally my doing. Thank you for the oppurtunity."

He drove the knife into his stomach, and thought of only her, how she had done it.

A killer. All this time. Just like him. How delicious. It had set his bones on fire, his heart, his very soul, overcome by something, a twin to desire, the desire to watch her, see her fight, kill, be cruel, prove just how alike they were, no matter how hard she tried to hide it, make it go away.

What the world had made them become.

A squeal of delight escaped his lips, counting, wondering when she'd stopped.

To William's credit. He was still writhing, trying to scream, his blood coming out in pulsing thrusts, draining the color out his face.

How her color had drained. As he wrestled the gun out of her hands. Just knowing how to gain his sympathy. Risking it all to humiliate him, with his own words.

First, he'd wanted, really wanted to kill her. Then, he'd just wanted to taste her. See her submit. Inhale her, so they would become one, move the same body, taste the same things, feed the same desires.

He barely noticed as William stopped moving, as he drove the knife up to his throat, the skin of his chest opening, peeling back like curtains themselves.

He felt for his broken ribs, prying them apart, the smell of organs tickling his nose.
Oh well.

It was the next best thing.

Restraint was gone as he grabbed into the still warm flesh, sliding off the bone not easily, but fighting to stay put, before he at last, brought it to his lips.

The world was spinning. All sound drowned out, of the dogs, coming closer, getting farther away. Too tough, too fatty to be elegant about it, he thought, or at least felt, toppling over and ripping more, first with his hands, then his teeth.

Something, at last, stilled in his mind. The point of no return, finally spoken aloud, slowed, silenced his neverending caroussel of thoughts, and feelings, and fears, let him succumb to the most primal form of existing, after years and years of failing upwards, pretending and pretending.

At last, it was over. The pretense. The pain. The struggle for power.

Now, there was only eat, or be eaten.
Except.

Her voice on the phone. Scared, yet determined. I'll do anything. Just come back to me.

Would she come for him? Even now?

Would she still have him, with blood smeared on his face? Would she delight in it? Or try to run, at last?

I did this for you, he would tell her, I did it, so my need for you doesn't consume me. Consume you. For you, only. Maybe I'm lying. Maybe I'm not. You will want to find out. You can't seem to stop. Well, neither can I. Let me taste you. Let me break you.

Break me in all the ways that matter. Fight me, let me win, if only-

And for a moment, he felt as if he heard her voice, answering him.

He knew it wasn't possible. He perked up regardless, and the world resumed.

He thought he saw a light, flittering through the trees. Still felt her voice, in the silence, inside himself, calling out to him like a siren, and while he knew he should not trust it, trust himself- he listened.

Not knowing, or caring that it was a mistake.

Because if she was not coming for him, someone, something else was.

Chapter Text

Theo hadn't asked a single question while the car shook her through entirely.

Never grow accustomed to the finer things in life.

The absence of a clock made her nervous, the only reminder of time passing the ever-darkening sky.

Maybe she was too late. She could not dwell on the fear. Couldn't allow herself to think of what might happen. What might not.

She forced her voice through directions, barely able to look at Theo, throat still hurting.

He was eerily calm, and it unsettled her, as if she hadn't been the same hours ago.

At some point, she wasn't able to keep silent anymore.

"Why are you doing this," she asked, dumbfounded, stupidly, reminding her of her old self, "Helping me, that is."

Theo stayed silent just a little longer, too long for comfort, in fact.

Catherine felt herself squirm as he sighed deeply.

"Because I understand," he answered at last, "That sometimes, we love horrible people. We cannot help it."

Theo hadn't seen the extend of it, of Alastor's horror, she wondered if he was naive, or willfully blind.

But then, she would be forced to question herself, and it was entirely too late for that.

"We don't want it to be true," he continued, "Not even seeing it is enough. And maybe, we need horrible people to admit to it out loud. So we can let go."

You don't understand, she wanted to say. I'm just as horrible. You're putting your life on the line for someone completely undeserving.

Instead, she hummed, the sound too familiar for comfort, and pitied him.

Alastor had admitted to it. It hadn't changed anything. It would never.

But Theo didn't need to know her plans. Or how he might get entangled in it.

Be the escape route for two murderers at once.

She knew that she was entirely too relaxed at this fact. But there was no way around it: the only thing she cared about was him.

And if he saw fit to kill her now, well- let it get ugly.

There was no life worth living after him anyways.
"You might get hurt," she finally suggested.

Theo grabbed the wheel harder.
"Noone is gonna hurt either of us."

She almost laughed at his self-assured tone, but then she remembered the absence of Alastor's gift, and her stomach sank.

Nothing would happen. She had to keep telling herself that, before she lost her mind entirely.
But then. What did it matter.

"Did it help you," Catherine wondered, "Did it cure you? To hear it."

His grave silence was answer enough, and she was sure he regretted his eagerness to help.

She didn't have to dwell on it for long, as she finally saw what she was looking for.

She was reeling, grabbing onto Theo's arm with disregard for safety.
"Stop. There."

Theo cursed, if for her behavior or the glumness of the forest clearing, she didn't dare question.

Only when they came to a stop, hidden beneath the trees did a sense of dread finally take ahold of her.

She knew this was a mistake. It only didn't feel like one.
And logic had abandoned her long ago, she realized.
Catherine wanted to apologize. She did not.

She looked at him, his expression grim, maybe finally realizing her determination. His mistake of underestimating the severity of the situation, of helping her waltz into a dark forest, harboring more than wild animals. Seeming like he wanted to take his words back, to turn around.
Fear, maybe.

As if there was a way they could get hurt.

In a way, it was his own fault. To compare the two. Their sobstories to each other, as if it made any sense.

If he wanted to join her doom, who was she to deny him?
When had she forgotten how to be thankful?

As she stepped out of the car, she quickly realized the sticky, moor-like ground wasn't set on letting her go easily.

If anything, she should've seen it as the dark omen it posed to be. But her heart was beating so loudly and quickly, she could hardly hear her own thoughts.

So despite the smacking, disgusting quality of every step, it was no surprise she gasped as a hand landed on her shoulder.

"Are you sure about this," his solemn voice asked, "We can still turn back."

She shook her head.
"It's too late. I can't go back. I won't leave this forest without-"

She trailed off, scared what it would do to her to say his name out loud.

"You don't even know-"
"I do," she snapped at him without meaning to, "Can any of you believe in me for once?"

A second hand softly grabbed her shoulder, turning her around to look up at her dear friend.

"I do believe you," Theo said softly, "Which is exactly why I think we should go. This is dangerous."

Angry tears shot into her eyes, like she was a child. She didn't need to be told of any dangers that awaited her. In fact, she'd survived the last few years, what harm could another night do?

"I have no other choice," she whispered, "I need to get to... Him. Before it's too late."

"But you're free," her friend argued back, something like panic in his eyes, "Flee the country. Go, before he pulls you in further."

Her laugh wasn't genuine.

"Was I ever," she questioned, her voice quivering, "I won't leave him. I will find him, and we will flee then. Together."

Before her friend, who looked like he was about to be sick, could answer, he was interrupted by the howling and barking of what seemed to be a pack of dogs, too close for comfort.

She didn't hesitate any longer. Determined, she dragged her feet through the mud, realizing she had probably made a bad decision regarding shoes. The deeper they ventured into the trees, the drier the ground got, and she was glad.
If she had to, she would run through these woods barefoot, getting stuck in the mud over and over, if it meant she wasn't too late.

That this wasn't the end.

She had half a mind to pray, but she couldn't bring herself to.

This time when her friend turned her around, she didn't even flinch.

She could barely make out his expression in the dark, but she knew he was trying to be encouraging. Positive.
"At least use this," Theo said as he pushed a flashlight into her hand, "I'm scared of the dark."

She appreciated that he tried to be funny. That he was here, even though she knew for a fact that he thought her a lunatic. That she had lost her mind.

And maybe, she had. Somewhere along the way. Not that it mattered now. She had given up on sanity.

But not on Him. Never on him.

She turned on the flashlight, and they walked on in silence. She didn't have anything profound to say anyways. So she used all her leftover mind to figure out a logical way through the woods without knowing what to really look for.

As the forest spit them out at a small clearing that offered several ways to go, her companion, also realizing she was clueless, sighed deeply as he broke the silence.

"Do you have any clue where we're going? I don't think it's productive to-"
He didnt finish his sentence as her cone of light got stuck on a tree, which very clearly bore bloodmarks.

He inhaled sharply through his teeth.

"That way," she simply said, walking in a quicker pace now.
Maybe he didn't dare to speak as she swished her flashlight around, frantically looking for more horrible evidence.

He didn't turn and run. She didn't ask for more. In fact, she should've accepted less.

Call it foresight, but she had a feeling this wasn't going to be pretty.

What a silly, lightheaded observation. She didn't linger on the thought too long. It was hard to track the traces of blood, especially since she just couldn't tune out the horrid barking of the dogs, which seemed to get closer and somehow also be further away every other moment.

How she managed to tune out the implication of following blood traces was a mystery to her.

Suddenly, her friend pulled her close.
"Turn it off," he mumbled, "I hear something."

She didn't have time to fully process his request. She listened out of instinct, even though it seemed counterproductive.
His voice was grave. Horrified.

She had never seen him scared.

"Cops," she silently asked, and felt him shrug.

"I don't know," he honestly replied before out of nowhere, the woods fell silent. The dogs weren't barking. The wind had stopped.

As she desperately tried to get her breathing under control, she could hear another sound.

A crunch. A horrifying, wet crunch. Breathing. A mumbling that sounded too human, yet not human enough. Eerily familiar.

Her friend held her back as she tried to walk onward. She felt herself getting agitated.

It meant nothing. Maybe it was an animal after all. And if not, at least she had found what she was looking for.

Maybe she needed to see. What nightmare she had promised herself to be a part of, no matter the consequences.

She feared it wouldn't change her mind either way.

"Don't," Theo whispered, "I changed my mind. Please. Spare yourself the pain."

She shook her head violently.

She would not back down. There was still time to turn it all around. To reverse the clock, to pretend all of it never happened.

They could run. They could be happy. There was no other way. She dug her claws deeply into the thought as to never let it go.

If she did, she wouldn't know what to do with herself. Her entire self had been carved open, screaming pityfully for nothing but him.

She couldn't fight it anymore. No matter what, she would not stop fighting. What was left, if not them?
Hellfire. Purgatory. Utter emptiness.

A life wasted.
As if it wasn't already.

She shuddered before the gunshot ringing through the forest reached her ears.

Both of them flinched harshly, staying close to each other, the gravity of their situation barely settling in.

Alone in the woods. With someone that had just opened fire.

She didn't know if her heart or her head was responsible for telling her to run. The only certainty she had that it was her soul determining the direction.
Only forward.

And suddenly, and strangely only now, she realized she might die in these woods tonight.

In the dark, they stared at each other, the gunshot so close, they had to wait on the other to fall.

And so they stood, unharmed.

As not far off, they heard the sound of another body slump into the mud.

For a moment, they listened to each other's erratic breathing, before Theo, without a word, grabbed the flashlight out of her hands and turned it back on again.

She realized her demise way too late.

Theo dropped the flashlight and grabbed her harshly before her scream rippled through the forest.

He held her as she trashed, insulted him, dug her nails into his arms, yet he did not budge.

Other lights joined theirs on the forest floor, frantically searching around, not far off.

"Let go," she pleaded as the barking got louder, another figure creeping into view.

Theo did not. She had no choice but to step on his food harshly, the poor shoe choice finally coming in handy.

She dropped to her knees, clutching for something, nothing, all that was lost .

The lingering body warmth was deceiving. Time was a sham. As was everything else.

Theo did not try to grab her again as she cradled him, trying to make sense of this moment that presented itself as reality, when it couldn't be.

This couldn't be the end. This was a big joke, a nightmare, a coup she should not fall for. Another game, surely.

But no matter how long she waited- nothing changed.

Nothing ever did.

Slowly, she got used to the overwhelming smell of blood, the dogs barking louder and louder, at last sniffing at her, the chaos that was soon to unfold around her, the heaviness of another's body in her arms, even her nonsensical mutterings.

But Alastor did not reply.

The world resumed, yet she did not budge. What use was there to run, or hide.

So she stayed right where she was, sobbing softly as the smell of blood faded. The familiar smell of him faded.

The world. Right alongside her.