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Chapter Text

Summer nights on the bayou were some of the most peaceful, at least it seemed that way to the man currently stepping delicately over march scum and weeds on a trek through the swampland. He hummed to himself, the sound adding cadence to the singing bullfrogs and crickets filling the night around him. It was almost enough to drown out the distant swearing and splashing of swamp water.

“Motherfucker! Piece of shit- bastard!”

He didn't increase his speed, keeping his pace leisurely as he flicked a knife absentmindedly in one hand. Alastor ducked around a willow, the branches waving gently among hanging strands of Spanish moss and he briefly made eye contact with slivers of yellow lurking in the water, the gator blinking slowly as it disappeared beneath the inky black surface.

His tune shifted to that of a ragtime melody he'd heard earlier in the night, piano keys loose and easy in the atmosphere of dim lights and the low hum of conversation. It had been easy to ignore Mimzy's repeated flirting, the way she kept refilling his glass through the evening in the desperate way she always turned to when she was having a bad day, but Alastor found he didn't really care. It had been a halfway decent day and it wasn't until the tail end of the evening when Mimzy sashayed her way across the dance hall to him to lean on the old piano, jerking her head toward the bar top.

Now he was stalking through the deepening darkness of the bayou, the handsy creep from the dance hall stumbling only a few yards ahead. He was a larger fellow, salt and pepper hair and linebacker shoulders and yet, Alastor didn't find himself worried or even concerned. He briefly thought to his last victim, that one easily a head taller than the current fool stumbling through brackish water and low hanging vegetation.

“Not long now,” he murmured, ducking beneath some lower branches to step up onto firmer ground. The man ahead was running circles, one reason Alastor had chosen this area of the bayou as his playground- the swampland wasn't easy to navigate for a non-local, especially in the dark.

Especially when it was Alastor who was out hunting.

Ahead the man went down with a sharp yell, branches cracking under his weight as he ptiched forward into the shallow dell Alastor had been pushing him toward for the better part of an hour. He approached at the top of the rise and gazed down at the sprawl of limbs among mud and branches, a hateful glare shot back up at him.

“Oh come on now, Bradley.” Alastor crouched, gloved hands hanging limp on his knees while he flipped the knife between deft fingers. He flicked his gaze across the broad chest and the calloused hands grasping wayward branches that had torn free when the man had gone down. “I thought you had a bit more run in you tonight. At least a bit more fight. I mean, you proved that much this evening, ain't that right?”

“What the hell are you going on about!” the man shouted back up at him, finally scrambling to his feet. A trickle of blood ran down his face from a gash on his forehead, crimson turned black in the shadows. “I didn't do nothin'!”

Alastor's grin widened. He stepped off the ridge, embracing the zing of thrill when the man scrambled back a few steps, his tie askew and mud smeared on his jacket.
“Is that what you told Poppy, hm?” Alastor flicked the knife once more, watching the whites of the man's eyes reveal themselves. “You remember her, don't you? The dame you put your hands on tonight.”

“Listen, friend-”

“I am not your friend!”

Moonlight flashed across the blade, silver in the darkness and red sprayed outward, blooming across the man's throat. Alastor grimaced, biting back the rage that had taken hold. He hadn't meant to let the game end this early, but...

“Dammit!”

He followed the body down into the shallow water, straddling the man's hips and pressing his hands- sans knife- to the gashed throat. “You are not allowed to die yet, not yet. Not til I say you can.”

The man gurgled beneath his hands, staring wide eyed up at him. Frustration mounting, Alastor snarled and then let his grip relax and slip away, sitting back on his heels to watch the man's chest spasm, each breath a strangled, wet grasp until it faded to silence and the chorus of the bayou rushed back into to fill the absence of life.

Alastor raked his bloodied hands through his hair, gripping at the roots and pulling until some of the strands gave way to clenched fingers. His heart was hammering beneath his ribs, the staccato rhythm drowning out all other noise. He studied the smear of blood against the body's tan suit, the open glistening chasm of its throat, and then he exhaled a shuddering breath.

The knife trembled in his hand as he retrieved it, plucking it from a cushion of moss where it had fallen. Turning it to catch the moonlight, Alastor watched the lazy drip of blood down the length of the blade as gravity inserted its will. He tilted the knife first one way and then the other, gaze fixed unblinking on the crimson pattern of a life snuffed out too quickly. He inhaled sharply and brought the flat of the blade to his tongue, licking the blood off in one long swipe.

Alastor tipped his head back, eyes closed and throat exposed to the night, and just breathed.

“Know your enemy,” the grizzled old soldiers on the corner of 5^th and Main said to each other more often than not when the silence grew too large to handle, their violence-filled minds turned back to the haze of a war long since over. “It's how you win. You start to ignore his patterns, then you know he's already watching you. And you've already lost.”

Alastor had taken the words to heart though they weren't directed at him, a too thin teenager running from home to school and back again. He'd shelved them at first in those early years, pickled and jarred to collect dust until he was ready to pluck them from the dry warmth of that cellar of thought, ready to sample the fruits of wisdom in a new light.

He'd always been good at watching. Sitting quietly in the midst of his mother's sewing circle with their needles clicking mutely against thimbles, voices hushed in curls of tired, brittle gossip. Alastor had kept that age-old lesson the closest to his heart- “be seen and not heard”- and it helped him now. In the swirls of chaos that was New Orleans, no one paid much attention to a sullen loner in the corner of a nondescript bar, tucked away with the cobwebs and the shadows.

But he'd also learned how taking the spotlight could be equally beneficial. When the world is a song and a dance, the motionless figure was the most likely to draw the most attention. It had come down to a balancing act, Alastor learned, and for that he had Mimzy. The flapper was the closest thing he had to a friend in this city, thought calling her such was a generosity they both knew she didn't deserve. Even so, she had become a reliable fixture in his life and for as long as their purposes overlapped, Alastor could trust her.

It was days before he could take the edge off, an anxiety rattling around his bones and twisting through every nerve until he felt it rotting its way into the cores of his teeth, an ache he couldn't relieve even in the dreamless grip of sleep. There was no helping it, the dissatisfaction of the week's earlier failed hunt thoroughly seeping into every corner of his existence. Alastor stalked through each day with shoulders hunched, his grin just a little too sharp and a snap in his tone that even had his boss at the radio station asking if he was alright. Easy enough to brush the man off with a mumbled excuse of too loud neighbors and too little sleep, and that had appeased the man long enough for Alastor to focus on the other problem at hand.

If Mimzy or any of her other associates noticed the decline of his temperament, they didn't bring it up. The flapper dragged Alastor with her to all the dance halls she preferred, the music loud enough and the liquor free flowing to drown out the usual dark swirl of his thoughts. He noticed the way her gaze lingered on him seconds longer than usual and it brought a fresh wave of frustration every time, but just when he had sucked in the air to snap at her, Mimzy was already flouncing away with whatever new gentleman had caught her attention for the evening. It did little to ease the dark turn of Alastor's thoughts but he found a shred of solace in the comfortable habit of watching.

So he watched.

And waited.

And when Mimzy let her hand linger a moment too long on his shoulder, Alastor followed her gaze across the writhing activity of the dance hall, and smiled.

The preparations fot the hunt at hand were as routine to him as breathing. Second nature even; Alastor moved through his day at work with the ease of a man on the happiest day of his life; where even his boss, so concerned for him previously, mentioned it was good to see the radio host with a bit more pep in his step. Alastor considered brushing the man aside but his smile widened despite himself.

“You know, I actually feel good today.”

With dusk came new problems, however. It was never anything Alastor couldn't handle, they existed in the sphere of his world as minuscule events he had come to expect with the territory of his hobbies but even so, it was a new challenge every time.

He had just barely finished adjusting his bow tie, his day suit swapped out for something easier to move in, when Mimzy flung herself across the threshold in a flurry of tassels and perfume. She had already been speaking even before entering his cramped apartment but Alastor had learned long ago to let Mimzy talk, a train barreling down the tracks. Tossing his jacket over one shoulder, Alastor offered his arm to the flapper and they were off.

The dance hall was no less crowded than it had been any other evening when Alastor attended in the company of Mimzy and whoever else they picked up en route to the hive of drunken revelry. Alastor recognized a few of the faces in the whirl of jazz-fueled chaos, Mimzy immediately abandoning her place at his side to throw herself headlong into the fray. It was a simple routine they always followed, collecting friends along the way and then Mimzy leaving him in favor of mingling. Alastor would converse with those few he recognized and many he didn't, drink until the edges of his consciousness weren't so sharp and demanding, and then Mimzy would return to drag him bodily out onto the dance floor for a round or two.

Tonight was no different. Alastor skulked and drank and Mimzy danced and dragged him with her, and when their bodies were pressed close in a moment of distraction with hands gripping at sweaty clothing and skin, Mimzy turned her blade sharp grin in his direction. Alastor knew that look well enough though she hadn't been the only one mapping the trajectory of tonight's chosen guest of honor. Names were of little consequence here, Alastor only learned them for the purpose of using them against the intended. A weapon of sorts, as soon as he had finished his work, the name was cast out of his mind with all the other useless details of the individual outside of the realm of blood and darkness.

The man he had chosen moved raucously through the crowded dance hall with all the confidence of one who's future is assured, cocky and arrogant. It wasn't going to be easy to get the man away from the bustle of music and dancing, but Alastor hadn't been a novice in the game in years. It took only a little more patience and Alastor had that in spades.

He sat back and watched the night pass in a drunken blur, gaze fixed on the redhead he had selected with Mimzy's aid. The man was an enigma of energy with his own focal point of gravity and Alastor would be remiss to discount the idea that he was watching this man for the sake of his plans. He wasn't fascinated by the pleasures of the flesh as so many others others seemed to allow themselves to be ruled by, but Alastor couldn't discount the fascination of watching. Allowing his mind to drift into the reach of the magnetism these people exuded as easily as breathing. Pretending for a few hours that he too could easily slip beneath the surface of that spell so far beyond his understanding.

By the early hours of the morning, his watch slipping from double to single digits, Alastor abandoned his coveted seat along the wall and approached Mimzy. The flapper's arms were stretched upward on the broad shoulders of their chosen target, his smile like a hundred watts shining down at her to light up the dimming dance hall. Alastor cleared his throat and then it was the usual song and dance of Mimzy's flirtations, the gentleman in question politely declining as decorum demanded, and then Alastor was there- ready with the finishing blow.

“I have a car, at least let me give you lovebirds a drive home. Least I can do since after driving our gal here.” This said with a hand on Mimzy's shoulder and a sibling-like look passed between them , and Alastor watched his victory walk straight into his waiting hands.

He often considered the mundane routine of it all, the strict regimen he'd perfected over time and preferred to stick to. Perhaps any other individual would have shaken the events up now and then like a mixed drinks in the skilled hands of an experienced bartender, but Alastor found comfort in the familiarity.

He let the engine of the car idle for several minutes in the inky darkness of the bayou he loved. The crickets and the wind enveloped the car into their subdued orchestra until the thumping of feet on the car trunk broke through his reverie. Alastor let his mind slip back into focus and exited the vehicle, lights clicking off to leave him in the comforting embrace of night.

“Well,” he greeted cheerily after popping the trunk and staring down at the man in the cavity there. “This should be interesting.”

“What the hell!” the man shouted, already struggling against the cords around his arms and legs. Alastor cocked the shotgun in his hand and the man fell silent, grunting only when Alastor reached in to drag his captive from the trunk and drop him to the mud.

“Here's how this is going to work,” Alastor said, crouching with the shotgun propped against his hip. He could see the whites of the man's eyes, that first taste of fear always the most delectable in his opinion. The man eyed him warily from his side, rolled there to keep Alastor in view. Alastor flicked a knife from his pocket and held it up, moonlight catching on the blade. “I've brought you out here to play a game of sorts. I'm going to cut you loose and you're going to run.”

“Like hell-”

Alastor pressed the tip of the blade to the man's throat and he quieted, sucking in a breath.

“You are going to run and you're going to think you're safe. But I want you to know you're gonna lose.” Alastor tipped his gaze around to the shrouded trees, the sounds of the bayou rising up around them. He looked back down at the man after a moment and smiled. “But I want you to try, alright? Make it interesting for both of us.”

He slipped the blade beneath the cords around the man's legs and then his arms, stepping back swiftly to aim the shotgun at his chest once more. Alastor nodded toward the surrounding darkness, his smile back in place. The man shuffled back a step, his suit creased and crumpled from the trunk ride and wariness in his eyes.

“You're bluffing.”

“Do I look like I'm bluffing?” Alastor gestured idly with the shotgun toward their surroundings. “I'd get running if I were you, unless you want me to shoot you here and now.”

The man started to curse and lunge for him but Alastor had seen every reaction more than once and this one was far from original. He swung the shotgun into his path and cracked the man over the head, satisfied with the resulting scream as the man went down into the mud in a tight ball. Alastor swept a hand over his hair and adjusted his glasses before exhaling, frowning down at the shaking figure.

“Get up. I said, get up!” He grabbed the man's arm to jerk him to his feet, shoving him back toward the very edge of the lantern light. He pointed with the shotgun again, baring his teeth in a mockery of his usual smile. “Run, little rabbit.”

“You're insane!” But the man turned and ran.

Alastor watched the figure disappear into the brush and the blackness then turned to place the shotgun back in the car in favor of his leather case of knives. And then he stepped out into the wilds, the scent of his prey before him.

The hunt sang through his blood, that first cigarette zing and the ragged edge of exhaustion crawling through his blood after a night of dancing only bolstering his steps. Alastor lent his voice to the orchestra of the wilds, humming quietly beneath the natural music provided by creation and just like the week before, it was only interrupted by the wild crashing of another human being ahead, his path one of reckless abandon through the swamp.

One would have thought after countless times stalking prey of all kinds through the wetlands, he would have tired of the same old song and dance. But there was nothing mundane or simple about any of it; once Alastor threw off the bindings of his quarry, they were free to do as they wished. Some ran immediately, some chose to fight. Others were content to drop to their knees and beg mercy from the unfeeling god that he was.

Each time was different and Alastor had become addicted to the taste of it all.

Now as he stalked toward the fleeing man, all sense of direction vacated from those terror-wrapped thoughts, Alastor grinned. He freed one of the knives from the leather roll tucked neatly under his arm and hummed, a thrill running through him when the man ahead cursed loudly and switched direction.

It took little time at all to truly catch up to the man, though Alastor drew out the chase as long as he could. It wasn't until he felt the itch of impatience run beneath his skin, that deep need for blood on his skin, that he made his move. Seconds, minutes- it didn't matter. Time meant nothing when he pushed his focus solely into the territory of the kill and he knew his prey could sense it too.

The man cursed and swore loudly, his sudden jerking change of direction proving to be his downfall. Alastor slammed the blade hilt deep into the man's side, feeling the vibration as he struck bone, and the man grunted. The went down in a heap into shallow murky water and beneath him, the man thrashed. Alastor lost his grip on the knife but his hands closed around the man's throat and he shoved his head beneath the water's surface. The man screamed and slammed his fist against Alastor's chest, grabbing at his coat and shirt with all the ferocity of a man dying. Alastor clenched his fingers tighter around the flesh beneath his touch, muscles twitching as the man stilled in degrees.

His grip loosened on the fistfuls of Alastor's shirt and dropped, arm splashing into the water as Alastor leaned back on his heels to regard the body sprawled beneath him. Overall, it had been a far more satisfying hunt than the week before and for now, Alastor could feel the inane itch for mad violence beneath his skin lull to a contented hum, satisfied for the time being.

The night was waning, black depths giving way to the soft cotton gray of the approaching dawn. Alastor grasped the thick wrist from the water and dragged the body up the embankment, startling a pair of wrens where they nested among the rushes. He let the body drop among the branches and reeds of the water's edge and tipping his head back to exhale slowly, eyes slipping closed to take in the nature around him.

When he opened his eyes, it was the feeling of being watched that prickled along his consciousness. Alastor was accustomed to the feeling in the years of living in the bustle of New Orleans, privacy a precious commodity. But out here in the sanctity of the marsh? It was as foreign as the car he had left parked miles away.

He let his gaze drift across the flat lands and over the trees, the pale arrival of dawn making itself known on the horizon, and then paused on the outline of the dark figure at the tree line. He stilled himself to unmoving under the scrutiny of this interloper, swallowing down the violent shift of panic that sang through his blood, demanding movement and action, a response to his peace being so thoroughly invaded.

The figure didn't move and for a moment Alastor considered perhaps he was imagining it. He had been drinking the night before and he had been on edge for the better part of a week, so it wasn't outside of the realm of possibility that his mind was conjuring a simple tree into the limbs of a living, breathing person.

But Alastor watched the figure- yes there was a person there, fluid movement lifting a lit cigarette up to tempting lips and even from this distance, Alastor could feel a magnetic pull toward this unknown being. It was as if strings had been woven around his limbs and beneath his skin, just now being pulled to awareness as they tugged him in the direction of this interloper. He clenched his hands until the hilt of the bone knife in his grasp was shooting pain up and down his arm, but for someone like him, it was a mere anchor to ground him to the here and now. He kept his gaze on the far off watcher, unblinking, refusing to let even a flicker of movement be missed under his spectacled gaze.

But then-

Alastor sucked in a breath and blinked, the figure having melted back into...nothing. As if they had never been there at all, his over tired and intoxicated mind supplying flesh and bone where there only existed bark and tree limb. But he had seen the person! Felt the way they had watched him, a lover's caress tucked into a single glance even from across this distance.

Abandoning his task, Alastor picked his way across the field toward the line of trees, his boots sinking into mud holes and more than once he had to locate a new route before he could continue. When the shadow of the trees covered him completely, Alastor turned his gaze downward with renewed focus until he found what he was looking for.
He plucked the smoldering cigarette from where it had been discarded on a patch of moss, watching the smoke curl lazily upward as it burned itself out. It brought back to mind the glint of the smile he had seen lit by the nicotine glow, the way those eyes seemed to burn their way through him down to the blackest of his misdeeds.

Alastor rolled the snubbed cigarette between finger and thumb and let his mind wander.

Chapter Text

Alastor was no stranger to the feeling of being watched, that incessant prickle of unease that shadowed his steps like an unwelcome tag along in every waking moment. It had taken years of learning and gentle reminders spoken by a being more angel than woman to not take any of the mud-drenched words hurled at him to heart. He'd hate it but acquiesced to her comforting demands and Alastor had learning how to to make note of those telltale watchers, the fury in his heart banked to embers but ready to be stoked at a moment's notice.

This feeling that pervaded his thoughts in the week following the near disastrous hunt was another beast altogether. He was no stranger to being watched, but this-

Whatever had been standing there on the edge of the marsh with a cocky ease that Alastor found distasteful had his metaphorical hackles rising.
He needed to be more careful.

It shadowed his steps into every morning and evening, this cloying intrusion into his innermost self. Though he had only felt the weight of that gaze for a few moments, it had settled heavily on his shoulders with no intention of letting go.

Alastor grit his teeth as the back of his neck prickled again with that same unease and though he wanted to brush it off as an aftereffect of the crowded dance hall he had been dragged to by Mimzy, he knew better. Paranoia and he were close acquaintances; in his line of work, he couldn't afford not to befriend the lanky, fearful thing. His own carefully nurtured self preservation was his other close confidante, both walking hand in hand half a step behind him.

He let his gaze drift lazily across the crowded room, picking out Mimzy's blonde head as she danced circles around her current partner, a man who seemed as mundane as the tides rolling in daily along the coastline. It wasn't until his third passing gaze across the cacophony of movement that a snag of white drew Alastor's attention from the sweating glass in his hand to an individual on the far side of the wide basement. A moth to a flame, that's all he was in the moment as he abandoned the quiet corner he'd fought for earlier in the evening, nudging aside other patrons of the corners for the sake of an unoccupied table.

A laugh rang through the tangle of noise and Alastor swung his gaze to the opposite corner and saw him.

If ever there was a god reigning supreme from the lofty heights of heaven, Alastor imagined he would look a little something like the gentleman in his sights. His back was turned, the gleam of his white suit standing out like a beacon among the shadowed masses surrounding him. But even without seeing his face, even without knowing- Alastor knew this was the same man. He couldn't fully explain it as he pushed through the throng of dancers amidst many a hurled curse and slur his way, keeping the man in his sights, but he knew.

It was a trap, some part of his mind screamed as his view of the white clad figure was obscured by the crush of people infuriatingly in the way. Alastor shoved more than one out of his way, blood screaming for the need to get his hands around the neck of the man-
-who was no longer on this side of the room.

He spun in a crazed circle just fast enough to glimpse a scrap of white disappearing through the shadowed doorway on the other side of the room. He growled and raked a hand through his hair, already moving back the way he had come in a thoughtless attempt to follow the stranger. Alastor stopped short, sound rushing back in like a flood- laughter and music and the hum of electricity overhead, too much all at once. His gaze snapped back across the room in an attempt at locating Mimzy among all the writhing activity but there was no sign of her particular blonde head among the countless others. Alastor cursed under his breath- he would apologize later, tell her that he had a headache and ducked out early. She would fuss and curse at him for making her walk home instead of given a ride in his car, but that was tomorrow's problem.
Alastor slipped out the door into the night after the stranger.

After sundown in New Orleans was like stepping into an entirely different world. During the day, there was the typical city cacophony- street cars racing from one end of civilization to the other, hawkers selling newspapers and street food and a thousand other things easily paid for and swapped hands on a street corner. There were the newfangled cars fighting with trolleys for space on the streets, the click of shoes on brick as thousands of people walked with purpose. Music, there was music! Duos and trios of musicians clustered together wherever they could fit, lifting brass instruments to lips to give life and soul to their great city.
But after dark, New Orleans draped itself entirely in the shadows and it was these times Alastor felt the most alive. When the electric lights popped and sizzled as they turned on and the whiskey started flowing, musicians swapping their attention-grabbing arrangements for the sultrier jazz ensembles found in the best smoke draped speakeasies that never existed.

It only took a moment for Alastor to spot the man further up the street, his white suit standing out in stark contrast to the shadows draping themselves along the row of houses and closed businesses. It took less time than that for Alastor to start after the man, hand clenched to keep from reaching for the slender knife tucked neatly beneath his jacket. This fool, whoever he was, would be a welcoming distraction from the evening's tension and frustration. Perhaps even with a bit of persuasion, Alastor could make the unexpected entertainment last through to the first of the dawn's rays stretching across the fair city.

The man, it seemed, had no care in the world. He had stopped on the threshold of an old church, gray stones turned blackened in the night, head tilted up to stare at the darkened stained glass windows overlooking the double oak doors. It was a tiny chapel overall but in a city like this where religious fervor clashed mightily with superstition and arcane magics, Alastor couldn't even count how many streets were crowded with buildings like these. The man stepped closer and laid one white gloved hand on the wrought iron railing encircling the chapel yard, stone pathway cracked to allow tufts of weeds and grass to flourish, his head tilting even further up toward the single spire crowning the chapel. A tourist then, and one the city would never miss.

Alastor grinned as he approached, the man not even turning when the soles of Alastor's shoes scraped on the pavement. It gave them a bit of a finer taste, the fear- even if it was just a momentary startle. Up close he could pick out the glint of gold at the man's wrists and throat, cufflinks and tie pin gleaming from the weak light of the lantern hung by the church door.

“Late night for a stroll, don't you think?” He turned to glance at Alastor and the nonchalance in his expression had Alastor shifting back a step, the hilt of the knife in his hand tucked back out of sight. Not nonchalance, Alastor realized a moment later as he took in the soft features; brown eyes assessing and the satisfied tilt of the man's mouth just a fraction unnerving. This wasn't just a stumbling fool paying visit to the crown of the south as Alastor had at first assumed, though everything about him from the cut of his white suit to the gold headed cane in his hand screamed wealth.

“Perhaps,” Alastor hummed, tilting his head slightly. “You left the party so quickly, we didn't get a chance to share a drink. Why not come back and rub shoulders with us a bit longer?”

The man smiled, eyes flicking closed for a moment. “Events like that aren't really my forte, but I think there's something here that could be just as entertaining.” He reached over with the cane in hand and tapped the gold orb end softly against one of the doors. “A bit of something that's to both of our liking.”

“...what kind of entertainment?” Alastor stepped up onto the cobbled sidewalk next to the man, shifting to his left and embracing the flicker of thrill when the man turned sharply to keep him in view.

“Come now, Alastor Delaune, you think me a simpleton? We both know what kind of activities you prefer once the sun goes down.” The man didn't wait, pushing the iron gate open and moving toward the doors. He paused on the threshold to look back at Alastor unmoving where he'd been left outside of the fencing.

“I don't even know your name, or how you know mine.”

The man's smile was wolfish, for lack of a better description- all Alastor could think of was a small animated predator staring back at him from a black and white moving picture, teeth bared in promise of a violent end.

“You can call me Sam, if you'd like. So, are you coming?”

What else could he do but follow mutely, the invitation laid out like a feast before a starving man?

The oak doors pushed open on well oiled hinges, the interior of the chapel well lit despite the late hour. Alastor took in the interior in one sweeping gaze; hanging tapestries and solid wood pews, a stone aisle pathway leading ceremoniously up to the pulpit and altar framed by the flickering of dozens of candles. The typical trappings of a religious experience, it was one he was familiar with when the weight of robes had hung too loose over his own too thin self, voice pitched in harmony with his comrades as they stood to rank behind priest and pulpit. They had been simpler times and in so many ways, far more harrowing than any he had experienced since.

It was the first thwap of leather on flesh that broke the fog of his thoughts and Alastor flinched on instinct, the man beside him faltering mid step to cast a look up at him. He glared back down at the smaller blond, again considering how easy it would be to grab the fellow by the arm and neck, push him back out into the embrace of the night for his own purposes.

“Something wrong?” Sam asked, one brow lifted to match his tone but the sound came again and Alastor pushed forward up the wide aisle toward the wall hangings covering the far wall. His hand closed around the brass handle of the concealed door, tapestry and tassels shoved aside in favor of the small chamber beyond and the pair of huddled figures within.

Alastor yanked the man out with a startled yep, fist closed around holy black, and flung him down against the stone steps leading up the pulpit. The priest turned on his back, pushing up on one arm, and stared up at Alastor with blood pouring from his nose. Behind him he listened to the softer tones of the other man, gentle words coaxing the boy from the darkened chamber.

“It's alright,” Sam said, nudging the child down the aisle. “You're alright, go home. Go on, now.” He nodded again and the boy, eyes wide and fists clenched to the point his knuckles were white, turned and ran out the open door.

“Well, this is a turn,” the man said, tossing a too gleeful grin in Alastor's direction. “Told you there was entertainment to be had in here, didn't I?”

He didn't take his gaze from the sprawled figure on the chapel stone, terror wide eyes staring back up at him. If the priest uttered any prayers in the hallowed hall of his sanctuary, Alastor did not hear them. He grabbed the man by the front of his starched frock, shoving him back against the gilt edge of the altar and not even questioning when the ragged edge of a torn tapestry was pushed into his hands. Binding the priest only took a moment and when the silence reined heavy in the chapel once more, Alastor looked down at the weight of the knife in his hand.

“You know what you have to do, Alastor.” Sam's voice echoed slightly from behind him, trailing formless fingers down the back of his neck and spine. Alastor shivered despite himself, gaze flicking from the blade he knew so well in his hand to the terrified mumblings of the bound priest before him.

Sam closed his fingers around Alastor's wrist, the knife stilling in his trembling hand. “Don't lose your nerve now, darling. You've done this so many times before. What, are you growing a conscience now?”

He swallowed, taking in the pleading hue of the priest's eyes, the wet trail of useless tears flickering in the erratic candlelight caught in the grasp of a gentle breeze rushing in from the left open door. Alastor shook his head slightly and brought the knife down into the priest's chest, Sam's fingers leaving his as blade met flesh. The priest gasped sharply, mumbled words escaping his gag in strung together Latin and French, and then he slumped against the pulpit with his eyes closing, darkened in death.

“See? That wasn't so hard, was it?” Sam stepped around the puddle of blood dripping down the flagstone steps, head tilted to regard the holy man. “Well done, Alastor. That's one less wolf in sheep's clothing to stalk the city streets tonight. You should be proud.”

“I've never killed outside of the bayou.”

Sam paused, the tip of his shoe nudging the black robes on the body. “Ah, you crave the familiarity of your playground. Nothing wrong with that, naturally, but think about how exciting this was.”

He moved then and Alastor shut his eyes at the dizzying sensation that followed, flinching when Sam pressed a hand against his back with his chin on Alastor's shoulder. “You were sensational,” he whispered. “Do you know how beautiful you are? Look.”

His fingers brushed against Alastor's jaw to tilt his face toward the reflective surface of the altar side exposed from under the trappings of the brocade tablecloth usually cast over it. He looked; gaze sweeping across the lanky distorted form staring back at him, blood on his hands and trailed in loving touch against his face from Sam's lingering caress.

“Look at you,” Sam murmured and turned Alastor's face further until their mouths slotted together at an angle, eyes slipping closed and the knife clattering to the stone floor from Alastor's loosened grip. He turned to curl his hands into Sam's shirt, tugging the man closer while his tongue swept between pale pretty lips, apples and brandy and the salty tang of shared violence sweeping across his senses. Sam moaned softly and for the first time in his life, Alastor felt something unspool in his chest and snap. He growled in return and pushed Sam back, up the few steps over the cooling corpse at their feet until Sam was perched on the altar top with hands braced on Alastor's shoulders.

They stared at each other, faces only a breath apart and more than once Alastor found his gaze flicking to Sam's red bruised lips. He had never counted himself a participant of carnal acts, not even an observer or a muse, preferring the solitude of his own company in lieu of another when the tightening and ache of his own body was an annoyance at best. But this...

Sam reached up to run pale slender fingers through Alastor's hair, dragging a low hum of a moan from the killer's throat. The other man kept up that rhythm of touch, fingertips dragging against Alastor's scalp and down to the back of his neck before slipping away. Alastor blinked at him, his own hands resting dangerously low on Sam's hips as he sat there on the altar edge, the heels of his shoes tapping against the mirrored side.

“What are you waiting for, Alastor?” His name rolled off Sam's tongue in a tone that sent fireworks shooting through the taller man's core and not for the first time that night, Alastor found himself surging forward against all better thought and judgment. He grasped Sam's hips more firmly, fingertips bruising against flesh beneath the layers of once pristine white now painted crimson, and slammed his mouth against the other man's, swallowing down Sam's moans. Alastor shifted his thigh forward to make Sam spread his legs, the heat and pressure dragging a stuttered gasp from the smaller man when Alastor dragged him forward by his hips.
“What-”
Alastor caught the word between his teeth, tongue sweeping over the syllables and swallowing it down in Sam's pitched exclamation as he shifted his thigh forward against the man's erection. “You're going to ride my thigh, little one, and you're going to like it.”

Sam flicked his gaze up to Alastor's and there was something so otherworldly and wicked and gleeful in that single glance, it tore straight through to Alastor with a heat he couldn't fully grasp. A wild untamed thing, he shifted one hand up to close his own long fingers around the pale column of Sam's throat. He pressed his thumb to the erratic flutter of Sam's pulse, digging the touch in as the man shifted forward against the press of Alastor's thigh between his legs.

The small chapel filled quickly with the chorus of pleasure, wordless praise tumbling from Sam's lips as Alastor ran his hand down Sam's chest to hook his finger through the buttons of the white vest and shirt covering it. Alastor paused briefly, long enough to glance at Sam and take in the other man's expression with his own matching wicked grin, fingers curled around the topmost button.

“I happen to like this shirt,” Sam murmured, leaning forward to nearly brush another kiss to Alastor's mouth. “But if you must.”

It took far little effort than Alastor expected, flicking his wrist and listening to the satisfying rip of fabric and buttons as they gave way under his hand. He trailed his fingertips down Sam's chest, pale skin unmarred and unmarked for the time being. He barely registered Sam's whine of protest when he pulled away, leaving the man's spread thighs bereft of heat and pressure, his bared chest untouched. Alastor crouched by the corpse slumped at the bottom of the steps, nudged there out of the way of the sudden tryst, and dipped his fingers in the puddle of blood.

He flicked his gaze back up to Sam and the sharp hunger in those light brown eyes sent him spiraling. Alastor brought both fingers to his mouth to suck the blood off, his gaze never leaving Sam's as the man leaned forward with hands braced on the gilt surface he sat one, chest heaving like a street corner whore.

“Give me some of that,” Sam said and the command should have stung, a slap in the face of everything Alastor considered himself to be, but...

He dipped his fingers again, pressed his entire palm into the life spilled over stone, and found himself standing to turn back to his illicit lover. Sam reached for him before he was even within range, pale fingers closing around Alastor's wrist to guide his hand toward the pretty waiting mouth. Sam didn't look away as he closed his lips around Alastor's fingers, tongue swirling over the drips of blood, his expression one of macabre delight. Alastor shifted closer again, his other hand pressing to Sam's chest to paint that milky white chest in streaks of crimson before he lowered his hand to grasp the erection barely contained beneath white linen.

Sam sucked in a sharp breath, teeth grazing Alastor's knuckle. He repeated the touch and Sam bucked forward, his next breath dissolving into another needy whine. Alastor chuckled but the sound died quickly when the man before him pulled his fingers from that pretty mouth in one slow movement, languid and teasing, and then guided Alastor's fingers back into his mouth. Back and forth, every sweep of Sam's tongue over his fingers in errant chase of the blood coating his skin- it should have been disgusting. In any other circumstance, Alastor should have felt roiling disgust course through him but he couldn't think beyond the heady fog of watching his fingers expertly disappearing between Sam's pert lips, the man's gaze half-lidded and staring at him up in coy invitation.

Alastor shifted forward again and closed his hand fully around the straining cock. His lips found the pulse in Sam's throat once more and he swept his tongue across the fluttering point while he ran his hand over the head of the cock in his grasp. Sam's voice pitched upward in desperate, panicked ecstasy, his teasing of Alastor's fingers forgotten in favor of pressing his own heated touches to Alastor's skin.

“If you don't stop teasing me now,” Sam started, his heaving breaths hot against bared flesh and filling the chapel with the echoes of his need. “I'll-”

“You'll what?” Alastor pressed his thumb firmly against the head of Sam's cock, filling the room again with distorted, wordless cries. He slipped past the constraints of clothing in favor of the feel of bare skin under his touch and Alastor dragged his hand up and down the man's cock until he found a rhythm that had Sam babbling wordless, disjointed pleasure. His own hands grasped Alastor's shoulders as an anchor, fingers digging painfully into flesh nearly hard enough to draw blood, and it was that flicker of pain Alastor chased. His hand closed firmly around the cock in his grasp, he surged forward to capture Sam's mouth in a deep kiss, tasting each cry as the man uttered it, and swallowing it down to savor in place of his usual after-kill feast.

The flow of hot seed across his hand had Alastor slowing, releasing Sam's lips from his own and tilting his gaze down at their joining. Strands of white coated his fingers to swirl with the leftover eddies of blood and without much thought, he lifted the spoiled hand to run his tongue across the mixture. Salt and musk flooded his senses though he had little time to consider it, Sam grasping fistfuls of his shirt to drag him back into another searing kiss, tongue pushing into Alastor's mouth to chase the lingering taste there.

“Lord,” Sam murmured when they parted at last and though they stood in the holy house of a god he didn't believe in, Alastor knew the title wasn't directed at some unseen being overhead. Sam stared at him with undisguised ardor, the heat in his eyes racing across Alastor's skin wherever it touched. “You can kiss me like that...do anything like that to me...whenever you'd like.”

“...flatterer.” Alastor made to move away, the cold reality of what he'd down sinking in like the slow descent of a fog crawling across the marshes. Carelessness was the first word that came to mind; he could feel the uncomfortable itch of blood drying on his hands, Sam's seed still coating his tongue in the endless heady chase of...something he wasn't sure he'd ever wanted. He made himself step back, gaze sweeping across the scene of carnage they had enacted. The body, the rumpled cut of Sam's suit, streaks of white and red on both of them.

Not they, though.

Alastor lifted his gaze finally to Sam's dark honey eyes, expecting to see lingering pleasure in them, but the scrutiny he found was even more unsettling. Sam watched him with a kind of knowing that made his skin crawl, every base act performed here feeling small and feeble in comparison to how the man looked at him now. Alastor wanted to turn away, shield his eyes from that knowing look, curl in on himself until he had folded himself down to a miserable speck of nothing, and yet...

Sam hopped down from the altar and nimbly stepped over the corpse, tucking himself back to rights beneath the ruined folds of his clothing.
“Well, I think all of tonight's activities deserves breakfast, don't you?”

Alastor swallowed, mouth dry, but nodded his agreement, knowing that somehow- some way through the traipsing hours of the night- he was in way over his head and that Sam, pretty as he was, was far more than Alastor knew what to do with.

Chapter Text

It took little effort to convince Sam to divert their route to Alastor's second floor apartment in an old converted brick mill instead of immediately heading out in search of breakfast. The ruined state of their clothing aside- Sam's torn and Alastor's rumpled, both bloodstained- was reason enough to slip away from the chapel in the gray hue of the dawn, but more than anything Alastor wanted a moment to just clear his head.

Alastor pushed open the creaking door of his apartment and reached for the switch just to the left, the single lamp on the far side of the room flickering to life by the window. It was a cramped space altogether but it had been cheap, the owner of the building and the landlord not caring enough to keep track of who came in and out so long as the rent was paid on time. The other tenants were equally caught up in their own lives to pay him much mind and for all the times Alastor had spent away from the comfort of his singular bed pushed between the embrace of two bookshelves, it suited him just fine. The wallpaper was peeling in the corners, imagery faded beyond view and framed by wisps of cobwebs, and more than half the time the radiator ceased working in the middle of the winter months, but it was home. The real prize was the gramophone taking up one coveted corner, undisturbed by the clutter of a bachelor's life.

Sam strolled into the space half a step behind Alastor like he owned the place and not the other way around, nodding in the direction of each minuscule detail catching his attention. Alastor paused long enough to watch the smaller man move around the room, a mere observer in the gallery of Alastor's existence, before he mumbled an excuse with a general wave toward the double door wardrobe in the corner and shut himself in the water closet.

His gaunt reflection greeted him from the mirror clouded from age hanging askew over the porcelain sink, a slashed grin turned foul by the streaks of blood across his face. Alastor stared at the man in the mirror staring back at him, taking in the sharp cheekbones painted in flakes of brown, the bruising around his eyes from another full night without rest. His lips were thinned and pale, but on the corner the welling of blood and dried and cracked, a leftover of Sam's insistent mouth on his.

What are you becoming?

The voice slithered around his mouth, a crackled parody of his own but pitched upward in the way it only became when he was on air. Alastor snarled and slammed both his hands against the rim of the sink, grasping it until his knuckles whitened like his grip alone could crack it. His reflection stared back at him, a mocking glare and grin that felt like it was stretching his face too far and too wide.

The night had been a blur of madness, he could still feel it curling its claws into his psyche. The intrusion into his most private existence, Sam's presence filtering in like a cloying addiction he hadn't ever been aware of... Worst of all, Alastor had performed some of the most base acts he had sworn himself away from, and he had enjoyed them.
It was Sam, he knew that- whatever the smaller man was, Alastor knew beyond a doubt that Sam had done something. Slipped beneath the cracks of his armor to poke and prod where he didn't belong, wasn't welcomed. Alastor glanced back up at his grinning reflection as a thought occurred.

I could just kill him.

It would be the first time he would enact any violence in the hallowed space of his dwelling, but it had been a night for many firsts for the lanky man staring back at him from the mirror. Alastor found his hand reaching for the cabinet door, searching for the small leather case tucked neatly within. He withdrew the razor from the case and stared at the flipped open blade, picturing how easily it would be to swipe it against Sam's throat and watch the crimson life drain from him. Perhaps Alastor could distract him long enough for the blow, push him against the bed and kiss him until Sam couldn't think beyond the heat and lust of Alastor's attentions. And then he would strike.

A knock sounded against the door, startling him out of that train of thought. From the other side of the door, Sam chuckled. “Just wanted to make sure you were still alive in there.”

Alastor mumbled some excuse paltry to his own ears and shoved the closed razor back in the case where it belonged. He splashed water on his face and ran one hand through his hair before leaving the small room for Sam's use. With the door clicked shut and Alastor left to his apartment at large, he focused on stripping his blood stained clothing for cleaner garments. White shirt and gray slacks and vest, Alastor tucked the gold pocket watch in his breast pocket and then paused to slip a few of his more discreet daggers alongside the timepiece. Just in case.

Setting out into the waking city with Sam was less conspicuous than Alastor felt; they were just two gentlemen leaving the refuge of home in search of breakfast. Sam strolled beside him with the same ease as he'd been in the apartment, the entire city at his fingertips. His clothing had been equally swapped for something more discreet and appropriate for the daylight hours, though Alastor hadn't counted any of his own garments missing and hadn't seen where Sam had been carrying a bag or suitcase. It was...odd.

“What do you think, Alastor?” Sam waved a hand in the direction of a cafe across the street. “After all that, I think bacon and grits sound best, don't you?”

“I suppose,” Alastor tipped his head in that direction, glancing down at Sam and finding the man's brown eyes fixed on him with a scrutiny that sent shivers running down his spine. And then Sam grinned and laughed, stepping onto the street to cross it after the passing of a trolley.

The door chimed and the waitress waved them toward an unoccupied corner table, bringing over two steaming cups of coffee and a plate of biscuits and honey. Alastor watched the proceeding like he was looking through fogged glass- Sam laughing with the waitress over a quip he didn't full grasp. Sam reading the menu and ordering for both of them.
Sam looking at him from across the table with a knowing look in his eye and an easy smile on his face.

“I was thinking it would be lovely to see your haunting grounds,” the blond said and Alastor felt that same wariness prickle at the back of his neck. Sam gestured vaguely with his fork, a sausage link speared on the tines. “I mean, I saw it from a distance the other night, but a guide as knowledgeable about the area as you are would be a far better day spent. Don't you think?”

Alastor shifted his gaze down to the plate of food before him, something he didn't recall ordering. In fact he couldn't ever recall setting foot in this cafe before, the setting far too particular for the types of clientele it preferred gracing its dining room, but somehow, here he was. And across from him, Sam was laying out the perfect opportunity for his own murder.

It was too easy.

“I have a better idea.” Alastor flicked a smile in the man's direction and leaned back with an ease and confidence he didn't truly feel. The trick was making Sam believe it, and that was the game. He reached for the glass of orange juice and watched the way Sam's expression tighten and focus on the bob of Alastor's throat as he drank.

“How about I show you the corners of the city you can't find on a map? Tourists like yourself-” and Alastor embraced the thrill at watching a flicker of surprise cross Sam's features, a small victory for himself noted and tucked away, “-rarely find the good spots we locals prefer. I wouldn't mind taking you to a few, if you're intrigued enough to follow me around.”

Sam smiled and leaned forward slightly, challenge in his brown eyes. “I'm intrigued, Alastor. You've got yourself roped in as tour guide for the day, then.”

The remainder of breakfast was a hazy affair; Alastor recalled the waitress spinning in and out of their orbit more than once but he couldn't grasp anything she said or did, the details of her interruptions slipping through his mental grasp like sand. It wasn't until they were stepping back out into the busier morning street that Alastor felt like he was waking up.

Sam was an incessant shadow at his side, peppering the silence with questions ranging from the architecture to the lore of New Orleans, his hand a steady weight on the crook of Alastor's arm. They breezed through the morning hours, footsteps clicking away the minutes against cobblestone as Alastor pointed out tucked away secrets of the city he loved most. Throughout it all, his eyes kept straying to the tender flesh of Sam's throat, the itch in his hand unbearable to reach for one of the slim knives tucked neatly in his pocket. It would be so easy to hide one in his palm and run it across the man's pale skin, let it bloom crimson like the first of the winter roses. He wouldn't be able to stay and watch, Alastor knew that- a kill in broad daylight would attract far too much attention and by the time Sam hit the pavement with fingers fruitlessly grasping his torn throat, Alastor would be far enough away to escape notice.

But every time he found his gaze lingering there, Sam would glance up at him and shift away out of Alastor's reach, a mouse prancing free of the cat's claws.

By the time the afternoon shadows were lengthening on the pavement, Alastor guided Sam back through the narrow corridors of the old tenant house. Up and up again from the street to the second floor of the brick structure and then Alastor was tugging the blond in through the newly unlocked door. Frustration sang beneath his blood, an itch Alastor was ready to relieve if it meant clawing himself bloody, but he stepped through the door quickly and behind him-

Sam.

Sam who had followed everywhere Alastor led that day, his own need for adventure driving the taller man on.

Sam who had waved a careless hand to brush away mundane needs, typical ocurrances bleeding into the background like they were trivial, beneath his notice.

Sam who somehow knew far more about Alastor than he was comfortable with, things he had buried and then buried again far beneath his persona where they would never be found.

The door clicked shut behind the blond and Alastor hung the chain, the lock secure. He breathed out and let his eyes closed for a moment, all he would allow himself. The thoughts had chased him through the day's outing, one step behind and to the left. His apartment was hardly ideal but Sam needed to be dealt with and if it meant Alastor losing this sanctuary as well, so be it.

He turned and closed the gap between himself and the smaller man, fingers closing around Sam's throat. Alastor pushed him back until Sam's knees hit the side of the bed, and Alastor kept pushing until Sam was flat against the mattress. The look on his face was startled at best, eyes wide and mouth open as he wheezed past the pressure of Alastor's closed fist crushing his windpipe. But he didn't shove back though his hands braced against Alastor's chest, fingers splayed like he was trying to encompass all Alastor had to give. Sam's lips parted in a word but no sound came.

Growling, Alastor reached down to undo his belt, slipping it free with a flick of his wrist. He grabbed both of Sam's hands in one grasp, cinching the leather around pale wrists and tightening it, looping it through the gaps in the brass headboard. With his arms forced upward, Sam stared wide eyed up at Alastor, his grip unrelenting on the blond's throat.

“Now, you're going to tell me exactly who you are and how you know so much,” the radio host murmured, pushing his weight further against Sam and the mattress, knees pressed to Sam's hips where Alastor straddled him. “And don't bullshit me. You think you're slick, you think I wouldn't notice- but I did. So tell me, Sam- what the hell kind of game are you playing?”

Sam's lips parted and he wheezed out a breath, throat working under Alastor's grasp. He twisted his hands in the loops of the belt around his wrists, glancing upward as he tugged at it. “Hardly fair,” the blond started, his voice thin. “I've been a perfect gentleman.”

“You're no saint, Sam, if that's even your real name.” Alastor sneered down at him. “Tell me what your play is here.”

“You plan to kill me.” Sam turned his head slightly, the damned smile slipping back into place. He shifted beneath Alastor, pressing upward between the taller man's thighs. Alastor's thoughts stuttered with the friction, his fingers tightening again around Sam's throat until the man gagged, lips parted and chest heaving. Alastor forced himself to let go, relax the stranglehold he had on the man and while he knew it was a debasing of everything he was, everything he preferred- he pressed himself down more firmly against Sam's hips and rocked forward.

The cry that spilled from the blond was obscene and not for the first time Alastor leaned into the urge to kiss the man, bending forward to catch Sam's mouth in his and swallow down every muffled cry while he rode him, grinding against Sam's growing need. The heat and friction was maddening, biting at the edges of his innermost self in a way Alastor wasn't sure what to do with. But then he looked down at Sam- Sam who was staring up at him with heated lust in rich brown eyes and Alastor felt the last of his resolve crumbling.

He dragged another bruising kiss to Sam's mouth while his fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, clothing and skin too restrictive all at once. Beneath him Sam arched upward, pleasure rolling from his lips in rolling syllables Alastor couldn't grasp fast enough to understand. It didn't matter, he didn't care-

All he needed was the feel of Sam's skin against his, heat and need between them, and nothing else.

A knock on the door rapped through the haze of Alastor's thoughts. He jerked upward and on instinct, pressed a hand over Sam's mouth before the blond could make a sound. The walls were thin, but not that thin- it was unlikely any of his neighbors were even home at this hour to listen to their coupling, so then-

“Alastor, I know you're in there, you fucking bastard!” Words almost drowned out by the renewed anger of a fist against the door and Alastor snapped his teeth against a slew of curses. Mimzy. He'd entirely forgotten about her the night before, those events wrapped up in the haze of distraction Sam had so willingly presented to him. That she would show up at his apartment at all wasn't outright shocking, if not an unwelcome intrusion.

He cast his gaze around; there was no mud slick pond here to shove Sam beneath the surface of, drowning out sound, and he very well couldn't answer the door with the risk of Mimzy knowing what he'd been up to. Alastor grumbled under his breath and yanked a handkerchief from his pocket while Sam eyed him. The other man's eyes brightened with a grin, mirth apparent while Alastor fisted the square of fabric in hand. It took barely a moment to pull his hand away from the blond's jaw, Alastor ignoring the imprint of his fingers in stark red contrast to pale skin, and Sam grinned as he accepted the folds of cotton between his teeth.

“If you spit that out,” Alastor hissed in a low whisper. “I'll slit your throat.”

Sam grinned around the gag and winked up at him, flexing his hands in the grasp of leather and for a moment Alastor had the uncanny thought that for all of the current arrangement, Sam was exactly where he wanted to be.

Mimzy's fist against the door resounded through the small space and Alastor snarled, shoving away from the bed and the man bound there. He crossed the room in three strides, never more thankful the door opened inward than he was at this moment, and with a final glance over his shoulder at Sam, Alastor unlatched the chain and opened the door.

Mimzy was red faced and fuming on the other side of the door as soon as Alastor had it open a few inches. She shoved a hand against the door with the intent to push it open, let herself into the single room dwelling as was so often her custom. “About time, you asshole! Do you have any idea how long I had to walk last night! All 'cause you abandoned me! Me!”

Her tirade continued, breathless in the way only Mimzy could be- how she managed to tumble words one over the other without pausing to inhale was a skill all on its own. Alastor sucked in a breath to respond, words on the tip of his tongue as a thought occurred-

This one next.

It was punctuated by the slow creeping touch of a pair of hands around Alastor's middle, nimble fingers plaing with the open panels of his shirt, his thoughts stuttering to a useless standstill. Mimzy's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open in a perfect “O”.

Alastor didn't even glance to the side as Sam nudged him to the side to make room for them both in the doorway, a flicker of red at his side with cheek pressed to Alastor's arm. His hair was damp and Alastor inhaled briefly, the air weighed down with the humidity of a running shower though he hadn't heard the water, hadn't even turned his back long enough for Sam to have accomplished...all of this. It made his blood run cold.

“Oh,” Mimzy said, shifting back a step. Her gaze flicked between them, taking on a sly hue. “I didn't realize you had company, Alastor. Why didn't you say something?”

“You must be Mimzy,” Sam moved into the conversation with the ease of a dancer, stepping neatly between Alastor and Mimzy like he belonged there. He didn't move from where he was pressed against Alastor's side, his cheek resting lightly against Alastor's bicep, but he extended a hand toward the woman. “Alastor mentioned you in high regard, I'm only sorry its taken us this long to meet.”

Mimzy grinned in earnest as she took the offered hand, giggling when Sam shifted forward, a kiss brushed against her fingers. “Well aren't you a charmer! You know Alastor, if you'd only just said-”

“And risk his pride?” Sam cut a glance up at Alastor, brown depths lit by a flame of desire, before he turned the full scope of his focus back to Mimzy. “He would never, darling.”

Her laugh was a high pitched, strung out thing; words blurring between the pair as Alastor observed them in a haze. It was only when Sam was shifting forward the shut the door upon Mimzy's departure, her farewell tossed carelessly over one shoulder with a casual wave of a gloved hand, that he found himself able to focus on the slim figure staring up at him.

Sam in the red dressing gown Alastor so often left hanging on the back of the wardrobe door, the angle of the collar pressed to his throat like a stream of promised violence. Damn him.

“Penny for your thoughts.” Sam pressed a hand to Alastor's chest, nudging him back to the empty bed where the belt and handkerchief were left, discarded as if they'd never been touched.

“How did you...” Alastor shifted his gaze to the man before him, taking in the way the robe hung from Sam's bare shoulders, Sam having discarded of his shirt at some point in between slipping from his restraints to inserting himself into the conversation.

Alastor swallowed and shook his head, focusing on the pinpricks of his frustration. Grasping them in metaphorical hand, letting them dig and cut into his skin in the way only agitation could ground him. He cut a glare toward the blond but Sam only grinned at him in return.

“Oh, Alastor, you're asking things I don't think you really understand. Nor do you want to know, not really. You like living in your small shielded world of ignorance and comfort, don't you?”

“You make me sick,” he snapped, reaching over to grab the man's arm and yank him close. Sam laughed, the cold sound filling the room as the light pouring in from the windows shifted from hazy afternoon brightness to the fiery hues of a sunset. It bathed over them both, turning the room and both men in it into beacons of gold and crimson and with it, Alastor felt a finality of dread settling permanently around his bones. He let his fingers loosen from Sam's arm, shuffling back a step, thoughts blank.

Sam regarded him, something like pity in his eyes even while he smiled. “I think it's time you showed me your bayou, don't you think?” he asked softly, reaching out with gentle touch to caress Alastor's cheek.

For all that he was- killer and madman, a purveyor of violent delights- Alastor could only nod numbly, obedience all he had left in the shambles of Sam's presence in his world.

The trap sprang shut around him. 

Chapter Text

Summer nights on the bayou were unlike anything else Alastor had ever experienced.

They were peaceful in a way he'd never been able to find anywhere else, night air filled with the endless choruses of bullfrogs and crickets, fireflies dancing in tandem in the air of deepening twilight. Alligators and other water dwelling creatures slunk away to meld themselves to the growing darkness. Whenever he came out here, he had always tried to live by one singular rule- to leave as little trace of himself as he could. The bayou was sacred in a way the city could never understand, but out here in the sanctity of the wilds, Alastor felt like he could breathe a bit easier, more akin to nature than man.

The figure beside him, though...

Sam hummed softly under his breath, footsteps near to silent as they walked together, stepping delicately over marsh scum and weeds on a trek through the swampland. Alastor didn't increase his speed and so Sam didn't either, keeping pace with the taller man with an ease that had every single one of Alastor's nerves on ragged edge. They hadn't spoken a word the entire drive over, Alastor guiding the car over paved road to dirt lane until at last the hints of a more tamed world vanished completely. It had all felt too constricting; Sam's gleeful silence during the drive and then now as they walked, his tune shifting to that of a ragtime melody Alastor almost recognized.

Alastor hadn't picked any particular location for this foray into the bayou, though now as he walked in the growing darkness, perhaps he should have. The trees crowded in on all sides, unfamiliar and strange, a silent audience of sentries to what he felt was a final curtain fall. He wasn't sure what frightened him more, the thought that this was the setting for his end or that it was Sam- small, unassuming Sam- who would play witness to it all.

Their steps turned inward to the thicker parts of the swamp but not so deep that their footing wasn't assured, and finally Alastor slowed his steps.

“What are we doing out here, Sam?” He couldn't help the creep of exhaustion from his voice, the slow crumbling of everything that had happened in the past two days rushing in from all sides to overwhelm him into numbed silence.

Sam paused three steps ahead and turned to face Alastor, considering the question. He tapped his fingers against his pant leg, the crisp white of his suit unsullied by the bayou around them. Odd, Alastor thought- grasping at it in a feeble attempt like a child catching a moth in the waning light of day- that even after all of this, Sam could stroll through life without a blemish on him.

“This has been fun, Alastor- you have no idea the joy you've brought me on this little vacation. I haven't had this much fun in years.” Sam moved toward him, hands tucked neatly in his pockets as he turned his gaze to take in the wide expanse of the darkening bayou. When he looked up at Alastor again, his smile had turned cold. “But I think it's time we cut the charade, don't you?”

He hated the way his blood ran cold, freezing in his veins to the point he didn't want to move. Alastor fought the rising panic back down so he could swallow past the sudden dryness in his mouth, gaze fixed unblinking on the smaller man standing casually only a few feet away. “What are you talking about?”

“All of this.” He gestured widely to their surroundings; from the weeping willows with their moss drapings to the marsh water laced with vegetation and wildlife, the entirety of Alastor's world encompassed in one sweeping gesture. “You've built yourself quite the stage to be sure, I'm not dismissing your accomplishments. But my dear, I think we both know you're meant for more. Killing in the dark? That's a little beneath you.”

He stepped closer and while everything in Alastor screamed at him to step back, he knew turning his back on the man before him would be a mistake. Sam tipped his gaze up to his, fingers reaching for the lapels of Alastor's jacket. “You're a predator who lurks in the dark, Alastor, but you're meant for the spotlight. Even so...”

Sam lifted his gaze up to Alastor's, brown eyes turning molten gold in the waning light of the setting sun. Alastor bit back the need to close the gap between them, catch the man's lips between his teeth until crimson flooded both of their senses into oblivion. He curled his hands to fists to keep from closing his grasp around the slender column of the pale throat exposed to him as Sam leaned upward, chest pressed to Alastor's and his lips near his ear.

“I think you should start running now.”

“What-”

Sam shoved Alastor hard enough for him to stumble back, vision teetering as the world righted itself beyond the blurred hue of his sight. Alastor dragged himself back to standing, hands pressed tight against a tree where bark scraped against his palms, grounding him. He stared at the gleaming figure a few paces away, not trusting himself to look away even for a moment.

“Isn't this your game, Alastor?” Sam's voice struck Alastor like a welt against his cheek, stinging nettle-sharp while his advancement pounded fresh terror into the taller man with every step. “You lure us out into the dark with the intent to kill- tell me, were you hoping to use that razor in your pocket? You promised to slit my throat, I'm disappointed you haven't delivered.”

He stooped over Alastor, reaching a hand out to run through his auburn hair before plucking the wire thin glasses from the man's face. Sam's touch lingered and despite it all- despite the blood and the fear, the impending fall of the axe poised against his neck- Alastor leaned into the touch.

“So here's how this is going to go,” Sam murmured, brushing his hand down to smooth the rumpled cut of Alastor's jacket. “You're going to get up and start running. Don't worry, it doesn't matter where you go- that's not the point. You'll run and eventually you'll think you're safe, but I want you to know...”

Sam trailed his touch against Alastor's cheek, his smile a gentle thing in the twilight. “I will catch up to you, Alastor. I always will.”

He fought to swallow past the too tight state of his collar and tie, lifting a hand to loosen the knot at his throat and undo the buttons, uncaring how they splashed into the water around them, lost for good. Alastor didn't move his gaze from Sam as the man straightened, standing over him with his hands back in his pockets.

“What are you waiting for?” Sam tilted his head to the side as Alastor scrambled to his feet, terror breaking through the numb barrier of his shock to send him down a path he didn't recognize. “Run, little rabbit.”

What choice did he have left but to run? To lean into Sam's softly spoken command when all other avenues had been stripped away and blocked off to him- Alastor shifted back a step, unease at turning his back to the man filtering through the haze of his shock, but then he turned and ran.

Navigating the bayou in the dark had always been a point of pride for Alastor- he could find his way back through pathless swampland with the ease and grace of a natural predator at any time of day or night. Having spent over half his life in the hallowed halls of the bayou, Alastor should have been able to outrun and outpace anyone.

Not Sam, though.

He could feel the looming presence of the other man permanently behind him, a spectre of promised violence. No matter how he turned, weaving in and out of ageless trees with their long draping limbs hanging into blackened water, Alastor knew he wasn't escaping. He wasn't fast enough, agile enough, clever enough-

Sam's humming hounded his steps and Alastor couldn't think beyond the melody twining through the atmosphere and scenery to snag at his every step and broken thought.
His steps faltered a moment too soon and Alastor pitched forward into the empty darkness, mud scraping against his palms before he slammed face first into unyielding ground. His ears rang, vision blurring between darkness and shooting stars before the features of the landscape came into focus, or as much focus as they could without his glasses in place on his nose.

Alastor groaned, pushing up on one arm and blinking at the array of white surrounding him. Petals crumpled under his touch as he shifted to kneel, gaze sweeping over the area while cold dread rolled through him.

Lilies.

He scrambled back on hands and knees, the perfume of the flowers bursting into the air with his every move and then Alastor froze when he heard the distinct click of a shotgun being cocked. He tilted his gaze upward, hands falling limp against his knees. Above him on the ledge of crumbled earth he had just tripped down, Sam stared back down at Alastor, a gleaming rifle in his hands.

“Well, I didn't think it would end like this,” Sam said, fingers tapping against the barrel. His grin was too wide, the light in his eyes to akin to fire. “That was a good run, Alastor, really. You made it farther than I thought you would.”

“Why...why are you doing this?” Alastor couldn't keep the exhaustion from creeping through his tone; there was no room left for terror, all of that bleeding away during his run- during the kills- during this entire mad dance with Sam from the moment the man had waltzed into his life. He tipped his head back to keep Sam in view, the man unmoving from his place at the top of the ledge.

“I would have thought that would have been clear by now, Alastor.” Sam lowered the rifle just slightly and for a moment, Alastor considered lunging upward, hands reaching for the rifle to yank it away, fling it back into the darkness.

Sam's expression brightened with a gleeful violence and Alastor tucked the thought away as if that alone could stop the man from reading it, turning it over in sharp clawed fingers. Above him, Sam sighed softly, tilting the rifle first this way and then that.

“So tell me!” Alastor snapped, digging his fingers into the mud. He surged upward on his knees, anger snapping into place. “Tell me why! Tell me what your game has been, Sam!”

He hated the way Sam's expression softened to something almost like pity, something soft and gentle that didn't belong here in this realm of blood and death. He gazed down at Alastor earnestly. “It's a pity,” Sam murmured, lifting the rifle again. “You shone so brightly, Alastor, and I hate that you have to feel all of this. But it needs doing.”

The end of the rifle pointed at him-

Sam's smile-

Alastor flinched, shifting forward and reaching a hand up to the gleaming figure.

The shot rang through the darkness.

Alastor flinched, curling inward on himself with both hands pressing to his chest on instinct. He exhaled a wheezing breath, turning his gaze downward to the red blooming beneath his fingers. The pain struck him next, a great burning thing tearing through his chest, squeezing an iron fist around his lungs no matter how he gasped, vision blurring. He barely registered the footsteps approaching; Sam jumping from the low ledge and dropping to his knees beside him.

Sam slipped his arms around Alastor's shoulders and eased him down to the embrace of the grass and the lilies, one pale hand running through Alastor's hair. He blinked up at the man and Sam smiled down at him, his touch a gentle rhythm.

“Shh,” he murmured and Alastor gasped a sob, watching a tear slip down Sam's cheek. The pain in his chest was blooming outward into a dull numbness he could feel in his hands, a coldness running through his veins with every soft stroke of Sam's fingers against his scalp. “It's only for a moment, love. Don't fight it.”

“Why...” Alastor asked again, voice cracking even while his eyes slipped closed, the urge to lean into the other man's touch as if that alone could pluck him from the path of the encroaching darkness.

“Because,” Sam murmured, bending to brush a light kiss to Alastor's mouth. “I love you too much to share you with a world where time can touch you. This way, you and I...we'll be eternal.”

His hand cupped against Alastor's cheek, Sam kissed him in earnest and Alastor exhaled his last breath into the golden man's mouth.

When he opened his eyes, he did not recognize the room. The scent of sulfur twitched at his nose and for a precious few seconds, Alastor thought he was imagining the way pure unguarded flame cast writhing shadows against the wall. He let his gaze drift along the shadow darkened marble walls, tapestries covering most of the empty space, and then he focused elsewhere.

He was kneeling, the floor beneath his knees cold marble blackened with glimmers of white diamond, a sea of unknowable stars in a sea of darkness. It was his own fingers that stunned his attention into a manner of stillness, blood-stained claws pricking against his thighs where his hands rested. Alastor lifted one hand and then the other, turning them to inspect each palm and bony finger. They were his hands, his mind could supply that- reacting to his mental commands to move and turn, fingers clenching into fist and relaxing back out again- but they were-

A low cough sounded through the room, rippling outward from a single point, and Alastor lifted his gaze up to the dais just a few steps from him, marble seeping upward into a burst of a constellation in the form of a man seated on a shrouded throne.

He was... breathtaking didn't seem like the correct word, but Alastor's mind failed to grasp anything else as he took in the seated figure. He was the only bright thing in the room, pristine white suit at odds with the curling horns extended gracefully from his head. A crown of fire was lit between them, the source of the flickering shadows Alastor realized, and it turned his blond hair to molten gold.

Lucifer.

The name slipped into his thoughts effortlessly and Alastor felt his breath catch, noting the way the man's smile widened, a predator's grin with teeth set to gleaming in each pointed edge. He knew that smile, he knew every detail about this man- from the way his eyes softened down to the curl of his mouth in that deadly smile. Lucifer. Not Sam, he had never been Sam- everything over the course of three days had been...

It had been...

“Well,” Lucifer said at last, reaching sin-blackened fingers down to Alastor. “It's about time you got here.”

Breath caught in his chest, Alastor reached back up and took the Devil's hand.

It took little effort for Lucifer to tug him up the few steps to the dais proper, clawed fingers curling against the back of Alastor's neck as the Devil himself nudged him into position. Cheek resting against Lucifer's clothed knee, Alastor breathed out softly while the man above him ran a gentle touch through his hair. He couldn't help a shiver that ran through his entire lanky frame; kneeling here at the feet of his murderer, loving touch applied, Alastor let his eyes drift closed as Lucifer spoke again.

“Welcome home, Alastor."