Chapter Text
For all outward appearances, the little quiet house tucked away at the end of the little quiet street, the grand magnolia tree standing sential all the same, was just that: quiet.
To anyone passing by who deemed themselves curious enough, a peek up to the windows would find them shuttered tight, at odds perhaps with the lingering late summer sun blazing overhead.
Inside, the house was just as silent, nothing more than the incessant ticking of the grandfather clock, endlessly keeping track of the continuous forward march of time.
Mocking, all the same, the silent prone figure settled in the middle of the living room; once-tidy, as now the couch and high back chair had been hastily pushed to the far wall, the floor rugs and runners rolled up and removed so that the bare floor was visible.
Hastily drawn markings, sketched and filled in red , outlined a large circle, numerous veves , bones both animal and human, and other oddities cast about.
In the middle of all this, hunched over as if to draw in on himself, sat Alastor.
His glasses were smudged, and he had long ago cast aside his hat and outer coat, favouring mobility over style for once; he had returned to the house to find you still out with Ameliè and had immediately set to finding his own answers - his own way.
Even if it was undeniably rushed.
A chicken was a simple sacrifice, but it was one all the same, his intent clear as he cleaved it’s head and set it’s innards about in offering. Candles, their flames dancing, offered the only source of light outside of what little was able to filter in through the closed shutters, as he had turned off the lamps and even made sure his prized radio was silent.
Likewise, nine cups of water, still and clear, sat near but futile all the same; no answers had come to him from within their depths either.
Simmering just beneath his scar-littered skin, Alastor’s temper flared in light of his growing frustration.
He had done more than what his Loa had asked for as of late, had spent many a late night once you had fallen asleep (long evenings stuck at work helped that illusion), stalking the cobblestones and ridding his community of those who tainted it, unworthy of the lively exuberance etched into its cultural foundations…
And still, his friends on the other side held their tongues.
The tick in his temple made a full come back, only just slightly off beat it seemed from the tick-tock of the grandfather clock somewhere behind him.
Blood crusted nails (ones he usually kept meticulously clean, despite the often physical nature of his household chores and his habit of bringing home broken, shoddy radios and tinkering with their mechanical innards), scrabbled impatiently against the hardwood; the man’s brain working overtime to find some clue, some note or acknowledgement of the strange and unwelcome shadowy house guest seemingly latched to his own wife .
His very pregnant wife.
With a sigh, the man unfolded himself from the floor, shifting to his full towering height, and brushed himself off (it did little to shift the blood coating his front, it truly had been rushed!).
He made a mental note to save the scraps, thinking that a visit to the Congo Tree with a bigger offering might be in order, before his long legs moved him in the direction of the kitchen and the materials needed to clean this particular mess.
Some elbow-grease powered scrubbing and one-knocked over mop-bucket later - he truly was caught in his head, clumsiness not a main feature of his, certainly- the main room was mostly back in its usual setting, minus a few protective sigils the man left, over which he threw one of the decorative rugs, a clear case of “it can’t hurt” mentality.
Alastor mulled over his options as he moved into the bathroom, intent on scrubbing the blood from his cuticles and changing his clothing before you waddled home from your extended brunch. He desired nothing more than to make sure you and the babes growing steadily in your belly were safe and content, his masculine ego fed by thoughts of being both your saviour and protector; and that certainly meant keeping up his appearance.
One nail, jagged and out of place due to the force Alastor had exerted earlier, caught against the edge of his wedding band, glinting under the thick suds the man had lathered up in his attempt to scrub away evidence of his impulses busy morning; your face, shining and openly unbidden in your adoration for him shone brightly in his mind's eye at that moment as he took extra care to clean any remaining gore from around the precious metal.
And yet still-
Even with his hands busy, at the base of his skull, the tell-tale tingle of desire and drive for more , weighed heavily. Whatever it was that was visiting you had undeniable markings of power, even if the little shade had yet to truly showcase it. And ever the opportunist, Alastor wanted it for himself.
(The feeling not so unfamiliar from his desire upon first seeing you and deciding your fate was to be entwined with his)
Alastor’s energy only continued to fester and grow as he moved to change the blood soiled button up and slacks he had donned this morning; he hadn’t been scheduled for a hosting booth today, and had instead originally spent the morning (only once you had denied his many open offers to escort you into town) in various alleys and nooks in a back-handed way of ensuring you did in fact make it in one piece. Given that he lost sight once you had grabbed the trolley, in hindsight his clothing may not have been the best choice for blood-giving sacrifices to the Ancestors.
An irritated snort passed his lips; being so hasty was not his usual forte, and now that he was stuck scrubbing the blood and gunk from one of his favourite shirts, Alastor made himself the mental note to take the time to change the next time he needed access to the Other Side.
Fat lot of help it had done, all the same.
Another irritated sigh escaped him as the man threw the small wire brush he had been attempting to use (the material of his slacks were stubbornly stained, the blood now dried pitch black) into the bathroom vanity sink. Alastor caught sight of the faint frown threatening to cloud his facial features, and spent a few moments flashing the mirror his most charming smile before he meandered off to your shared martial bedroom.
As if to combat against his rush off frustration, he choose a white undershirt, a pair of plain brown pants, and was considering going barefoot in the backyard and hacking away at the pile of kindling meant for the axe when the sound of the bolt on the front door caught his overzealous and well trained ears.
The odd step of the new arrivals footsteps, the sound lumbersome and slow, was all the hint he needed to know you had finally arrived back.
The man quickly grabbed a better tailored shirt, and threw it casually over his long arms; he left it unbuttoned, the material fluttering behind him as if testament to his slumbering madness as he set a fast pace to greet you ( and perhaps to ensure you didn’t linger too long on why the windows were shuttered still, given the summer weather)
“Hello, my little darling!” Alastor crowed, his arms wide as he came upon you in the hallway; you stopped short, your hearing much less attuned to footsteps than his, before you were swept up in a rather bone-crushing hug.
Your soft sound of protest at his manhandling was muffled by the firmness of his sternum as he pressed into you, large hands at the small of your back to keep you close.
“How was your morning out? Mine was rather disappointing- “ his dark, rich chuckle filled the air, as alluring and warming as the coffee you had had only so much earlier. “I'm a jealous man, after all, and expect full details, my dear!”
His scent had always been both a comfort and tinder to your fluctuating emotions; like a feather in the wind, you felt light enough to simply breathe in his presence and constant over joviality.
Despite everything, he was becoming home to you. Sometimes you wanted to get away from ‘home’, but sometimes all you wanted to be was there, too. Apart from your initial shock, you found your face burying into his chest before you could stop yourself.
“I’ve yet to even put my things down, Al,” you snorted. He was like a dog in some ways - always so eager to be by your side with no basic understanding of the limits of nosiness or a ‘personal bubble’.
While you would give him what he wanted, he had also unintentionally given you an incentive to dig about his most recent shenanigans. You relaxed in his grip after a moment, leaning further into him until the weight that you currently carried alongside you was assisted by his own stance.
Your feet were killing you.
“Why was it disappointing?” Bread crumbs, at this rate; you would dig until the earth turned to mantle, apparently. Your outing had been nice, sure, but you felt as if you had revealed all of your cards - only to come back empty handed. You hadn’t ever been very good at gambling to begin with, to be fair.
You felt his one hand shift, running up the curve of your spine as he easily accepted your weight, nimble fingers itching to bury themselves in your hair all the same. He settled for brushing through the few errant wisps curling by your ear, before he shifted apart from you completely (affection did tend to ebb and flow based on his preferences) and grabbed for said things of yours.
“Well, once you had shunned my attempt at quality time together-” the grown man that was your very much illegally married husband turned on his heel and flounced off down the hallway, clearly under the pretence that you would follow the wake of whatever tantrum he was building, if only to secure your purse again.
“I wasn’t sure how best to salvage the morning, so I took a walk through the neighbourhood and it just so happened that the family - the ones down on the far corner, y’know darling, the ones with the lovely rose bushes out front - anyway, their stove wasn’t working so I offered my assistance.”
Naturally, Alastor said this all rather fast as he went, his hands flapping about him madly like some giant bird, the strap of your purse securely in his hold all the same. You tried your best to reach for it, but he held it just out of your reach. Of course.
“Well, all that’s a convoluted way of saying by the end of it all, all we had accomplished was upsetting the stack pipe, leaving ourselves covered in ash.”
You heard the bedroom door open and then just as quickly close, your own footsteps having only successfully taken you as far as the first quarter of the hall before, yet again, Alastor swooped down you on (his hands now empty; you assumed he had hung your purse in the shared closet), all teeth and eager fingers as he grabbed you by your hips to steady you in front of him.
“Ruined a perfectly good shirt,” he seemed to grump, mind dashing off in whatever crazed, hasty direction it had clearly fled.
However, his dark eyes washed over you, while his fingers flexed against the softness of your sides. Perhaps against your better judgement, your plump lips had quirked in a little sideways smile, your eyes shining up at him. Immediately, as if to offset the lingering bitterness of his failed attempts at clairvoyance, warmth bloomed behind his breastplate at the very sight of you.
How Ironic, the man thought briefly, that his growing affection, in a twisted way, made the lying easier, his tall-tale falling from his lips so smoothly -
Before you could offer any sarcastic condolences to the loss of his shirt - as if he didn’t have an entire collection - the same honeyed lips dipped to brush against yours… to which he would only be able to find solace in the memory of past moments of heated affection, emotionally sought out in times where words could not be found.
Now, though? When you at last had a modicum of an idea of how to have… some sort of upper hand? He obviously enjoyed your doting affection with that inflated ego of his. It would be difficult, considering your love language was touch and not being able to would be a punishment on both ends.
But how long could you possibly find comfort in each other’s bodies, prolonging the inevitable? It had to happen before your children were here - you wouldn’t be the parent to introduce unneeded stress on their innocent lives. To say you were disappointed in the amount of information you obtained in your outing with Amélie had you playing the fool, even if it wasn’t her intention.
You had to put your foot down.
You would go insane if not, honestly, and you were feeling your resolve chip away. Maybe it would be easier to be a simple housewife; could you live with the drab life if you were?
“Alastor…” you whispered softly, a solemn tone encompassing your words. He was genuinely exhausting, and you struggled to understand what exactly he was keeping from you. He had to be keeping stuff from you - everything was so damn suspicious. The paranormal occurrences didn’t help, either.
Your nose rested in the space of his own, the ghost of your lips against each other, and it would be so easy to just—
You pulled away, keeping him at arm’s length. Maybe for your own safety. At this rate, you weren’t too sure yourself.
“I miss the days when we could be young and stupid. It’s not like that anymore and everything that’s happening is really close to driving me nuts. I don’t know what I need to know, but I need to know it and I’m going to find out, whatever it is.” You averted your gaze, a sudden chill raising the goosebumps upon your skin as if the surrounding room knew of the growing tension.
You were quick to nip that in the bud and flashed him an appeasing smile. No sir, no fights here. You were being the bigger person (ironically the smallest one in the room)!
“So,” you clasped your hands together in front of you, “ I think we should figure this out before it’s too late, what do you think, Mr. Radio Man?” That was a nickname that you hadn’t used in awhile, and it sparked an air of playfulness in you despite the heavy topic.
Alastor blinked owlishly behind the wireframes of his glasses, the spectacles flashing in the low light from the now-opened windows as his head tipped (perhaps subconsciously) to one side as though he were some mutt rather than man. The lips that had been posted to capture yours were now pursed, some of his prior irritation bleeding through.
“Sweetheart,” he began dryly. “As much as you know I adore your feisty and never-ending mission to bludgeon this topic to death - “
Alastor paused and, all considered, returned your playfulness by bopping the tip of nose. His mouth quirked to one side, mirroring the odd grin you had given him earlier, even if your rejection of his physical affection stung much more than he liked to admit.
“I’m really not sure what else you expect me to tell you, you silly dame!
Alastor ended with a playful squeeze of your cheeks, his hand dwarfing your lower face easily. He went the extra mile (when did he not?) and puckered his own lips in blatant mockery of the very face he made you throw.
You hummed, unimpressed.
Yeah, no, this wasn’t how it was going to go anymore. If you continued to allow it (you had become convinced people were hiding things from you and god dammit you were his wife, not just some woman he could treat like any other!) you would surely lose any sense of understanding.
Surely Alastor wouldn’t…
Turning away with a shrug - “If that’s what you say,” you huffed. Like many others, matching energy wasn’t necessarily difficult; Alastor’s, however, was like throwing a dart in the dark. Hitting your mark was a one in one-hundred chance.
“If you don’t want to tell me anything of,” you made bunny-ears with your fingers, “ importance,” a roll of your eyes, “then let’s play it your way.” Yeah, you could do this alright. Ha-ha, look at you now, Momma! Smugly, you suggested:
“Five foot rule until you give me what I want.”
Alastor’s incredulous puff of breath escaped him so abruptly at your threat that it made a rather rude noise in effect.
“You?” The man said, his blatant humour at the very thought all too evident in the outright joviality in his tone. You heard more than saw his belly laugh that followed, although the sound was startlingly grating considering the atmosphere.
The use of your name was even more stark, Alastor’s voice rich but less alluring than the sweet talk he had piled you with before. His disbelief was clear, even as his footsteps echoed out as he moved only closer.
“I wasn’t aware you knew of personal boundaries.”
Okay, perhaps your cold shoulder was affecting him more than he had expected…
When in doubt, add more snark.
“I doubt you’ll be able to resist long enough for it to be much trouble, dollface.”
Alastor had the gall to reach blindly for your hand in that moment, his long, spidery fingers dusting the back of your knuckles as though to lace them together regardless of your protest.
There was something about his blatant astonishment and own offense that held your anger at bay; if anything, you were surprised at the fact that you had not an ounce of anger at all! Perhaps you had really run yourself to the very ends of your seams this time, maybe even to the point of no return.
He was hiding something.
You knew it deep down, because why else was his family so… secretive? There was something blatantly wrong.
If it was for the reason you suspected or for something entirely different, you knew you couldn’t live like this - suspended in the unknown. You doubted anyone could. There was a fine line between living and thriving, and most days you wondered what a person would do if led by the prospect of mere survival.
It couldn’t have been pretty.
You also wondered if, by chance, the path you had seen in your dream was a warning of what was currently occurring - if you continued down this road, there would be no going back. Were you intentionally screwing yourself over? Maybe. It was a definite possibility.
You pulled your hand back before he could make contact with it. “You should practice humbling yourself, sir. You don’t know how far I’ll go to get to my goal. I may have married you, but your knowledge on my life before we met is incredibly limited,” you let a bite out of your words.
“You know my body, not me. Now, if you’ll excuse me… I have some practice to get in before I have two more of you running around my ankles,” with a short ‘lord help me’, you turned and left the man to his own devices and whirling thoughts.
You deserved knowledge. You deserved knowing every single detail about the man that now stood behind you, growing further and further as you let yourself out towards the kitchen (thankfully without any sort of resistance) - yes, you’d play the role of the doting housewife because that was what you were raised to be, wasn’t it?
Destiny, no matter how hard fought, always won in the end.
Yes, you deserved to know, because you weren’t sure your chances of survival of the birth alone. You didn’t know what would happen once they weren’t protected by your womb, you didn’t know how folk would react or how your family would be affected by your mistake. It had been one night of indulgence, only to… put a spin on your life plans. Whatever those were.
You hadn’t a plan, necessarily, but being tied down surely wasn’t one.
You deserved to know everything that was happening around you because you couldn’t imagine living your remaining months in mystery and uncertainty. It was a fear that you hadn’t voiced yet, but the closer it got to the date, the more anxious you felt. The more anxious you felt, the more dreams that had occurred; the more paranormal occurrences that messed with you.
Life wasn’t fair.
You knew this.
It didn’t make it any easier though.
And so you would spend the better half of the rest of the afternoon to yourself, a soft tune playing on the radio to encompass the gap of silence when your rampaging thoughts left you a modicum of a break. You had even caught yourself humming to a familiar lilt before being distracted by the sight of two bluebirds giving the other chase past the window sill.
The last time you had seen them consciously, you had been on the porch, practicing knitting alongside your mother just after her pregnancy with Ruth. You had been so young then, only fourteen at the time, and struggled with the idea of being raised alongside another. Unlike many families, you had been an only child; of course your parents had tried for years to have a thriving family, but it never came to fruit. You hadn’t even liked Ruth, at first.
Newborns were incredibly ugly things, truthfully. The pain that your mother had gone through terrified you to no end, but also cemented the idea of what was expected of you (and the fear that you would never be able to provide that because it terrified you so much).
Ruth was tucked away in a small bassinet, slumbering under her many wrappings and swaddled tight.
It was only when she began to properly fuss, her scrunched face turning red and then a strange dark purple hue as her distress grew that your mother turned. With a soft sigh and a gentle hush, your mother had scooped Ruth up, tucking the newborn effortlessly to her breast. She hummed slowly, one hand moving to gently tuck against one pink-tinged baby-soft cheek, thumb tickling the new skin there.
You felt an odd burn of jealousy behind your chest and with fingers suddenly shaking too hard to hold your knitting needles properly, you set them down primly in your lap and cast your eyes to the trees above. There, a mated pair of bluebirds hopped from branch to branch, chirping and calling to each other as if to celebrate the coming of Spring.
Her attention hadn’t faltered until the soft sounds of suckling and a few contented coos from the babe filled the silence, only then did your mothers gaze jump upwards too.
“You know a funny little thing about bluebirds?” Your mothers soft voice, just as sweet and pure as any Southern belle, rang gently in your ear; you kept your eyes on the birds in question, watching as the feathered couple danced about each other in the treetop.
“They use the same nest nearly every year, imagine that! Each year, mama and papa bird fly back, fix up that pigsty, and get to having their brood.”
Your mothers kind, adoring eyes had turned to you in that moment, the hand not cradling Ruth to her chest had reached and grasped your wrist.
“Family means… patience and dedication. Love is a little like that too, you hear?” your mother clicked her tongue softly, pausing to adjust baby Ruth who was still over-eagerly suckling; her wince only solidified the idea that breastfeeding was also terrifying and painful.
She gave a gentle chuckle at the look of pure doubt that had remained on your face as she moved to burp a squirming Ruth.
“Maybe one day you’ll find your bluebird, my dove. Then you’ll see what I mean with a nest of your own.”
You were ushered back into reality by the ‘ plop’ of tears hitting the sink, escaping in the endless suds of soap and dishes that had yet to be clean. Try as you might, the choked sob that hiccuped from your throat alerted you to the fact that you were still presently mourning your mother to this very day. It had been eight years, and it was so damn hard without her. Ruth had grown to be everything to you after her death, considering the fact that you were the sole provider most of the time.
God, when was the last time you had seen Ruth? Your father? Your family? Your mother would have been so disappointed in you, you were sure of it! Was this some sick punishment to really drive home that you fucked up? You were twenty-two and your life was fucking ruined now (it wasn’t but it sure felt that way in your meltdown) by mystery and societal chains.
You grabbed a sudsy plate and threw it at the wall, the shatter accumulating in the surrounding area until that soft tune of the radio filled the silence once again. Except, it wasn’t silent - no, your blood was roaring in your ears, and your vision was throbbing by the wicked migraine that decided to make a visit. You were hunched slightly, breath wavering as you looked at the shards of china compiled randomly on the floor.
Was it expensive?
Probably.
They looked nice enough to be worth a pretty penny.
That’s what made it feel even better.
A funny giggle that would have freaked you the fuck out fled from your lips, just as you grasped another dish. Again, you threw it against the wall, this time chipping the wallpaper as it shattered over the floor. If you hadn’t been utterly exhausted by pregnancy, you would have kicked shit around, you were sure.
But for now? This would have to do. Maybe seeing Alastor on his hands and knees cleaning up your mess would make you feel better, too.
You fucking hated him. You hated him for meeting you, you hated him for messing with you, you hated him for being the most charming man you had ever met, you hated him for sleeping with you, you hated him for making you believe that that would be it and you both could go back to your normal ways of life, but most importantly…
You hated him the most for making you love him.
You threw a knife this time into the wall, and instead of it landing with a ‘thunk’, it clattered onto the ground with the endless junk that you had created. Just your luck, you seethed.
More of said luck arrived in no time with the soft padding of feet reaching your ears despite the continued thundering of your pulse, and a tall, lanky form soon took up the space of the kitchen doorway. Your eyes remained on the knife, it’s blade sharp but well worn all the same from continued use in the kitchen. Silence rang supreme in a second that was far too stretched out, the radio having been left to continue to tinkle along in the background.
Judging by the state of his socked feet (bless your peripheral vision) you guessed Alastor had been out since your tiff earlier and perhaps just arrived home, in the weird state of being shoeless but without his house slippers yet. Even the idea that he could come and go so much easier than you did nothing more than fan the flames of your temper - until he bent and began picking up the larger pieces of glassware himself.
You had been right - watching his lithe form on the floor, the jarring scrape of the glass being collected did make you feel a weird sense of triumphant entitlement. You crossed your arms, one hand dropping as it always did now to rest on the small swell of your bump.
It was only a small victory in a long line of crimes you assumed he was guilty of, but a victory all the same.
“S’pose we’ll just blame the hormones…” the man in question trailed off as he stood back up, hands full of glass and his smile stretched far too thin on his lips. Alastor’s dark eyes lingered on the handle of the knife, still in its place on the floor.
“Mags won’t mind, s’long as you're alright that is.” His keen gaze moved to rove over your features, despite the fact you had yet to fully look at him.
You scoffed, unable to hide your irritation as the man used his natural tone; like you were some startled mare needing to be soothed rather than a very justifiably angry, extremely pregnant woman.
“Do I look alright to you?” Even your shoe, which you had yet to remove, tapped a rhythm on the floor. You crossed your arms tighter, although you did manage to stand a bit straighter - god your back hurt - at the sight of him groveling at your feet a few arm lengths away.
“Because if I were you, I would be very wary of what I say next.”
The crashing, outright alarming sound of the broken dish pieces landing in the small basin at the sink made you flinch but only slightly; your anger had been shimmering for far too long and you prided yourself for standing tall in the face of what was clearly a moment of, what, intimidation?
Did the lanky fool in front of you really believe he could physically bully you -
“No,” Alastor said softly, words cutting your spiral of thoughts abruptly. “No, I s’pose you’re right.”
The man sighed, the sound nearly forlorn had it not been for the small grin still, as it always was, present on his lips. He reached for a hand towel and wiped his hands demurely, ignoring the rest of the shattered glass on the floor.
“The time for idle chatter has come and gone; admittedly perhaps I’ve been playing my hand all wrong.” He lifted the hand with his wedding band present, the metal flashing as he wiggled said digits.
Alastor gave you one last close look, his grin stretching in what could only be described as a warning, taking in the way your lips had parted as if to continue to berate him in spite of the turn of conversation; you felt a strange bubbling of nerves fluttering in your gut just as he clicked his forefinger and thumb together. You caught one last sight of his eternal smile before the room went pitch dark, in spite of the sun still outside.
You felt rather than saw…whatever it was he had conjured up. The steady brush of wind danced along your calves and forearms, fluttering the edges of the dress you still adorned. The loud, grating sound of the glass being collected almost drowned out the low sound of whispering that came and went, the words unintelligible but for mere hissing lost in the strange flurry of activity you found yourself surrounded by.
The lights flickered on just as quickly as they had been distinguished, the sunlight from the windows finally permeating the darkness that had been present. You blinked, trying your best to refocus your eyes, goosebumps littering your skin all the same. You found Alastor just as he had been, leaning far too casually against the edge of the counter top, save for the fact that the floor at his feet was spotless, the basin now full of shattered plate pieces.
That, and over one of his shoulders, sat a pair of blank, void-like eyes (not unlike the ones you had seen before, although the energy of his creature was a far cry from the presence you had encountered). The shadowy creature folded in on itself before rippling back into its edgeless shape, warbling as though it was made of ocean waves and not something from beyond.
With a secondary jolt that had little to do with the small show of paranormal - whatever - you saw Alastor had hold of the knife now, hilt resting in his hand loosely. If you were the hypothetical Little Red, the smile Alastor cast you in that moment only solidified that he was, in fact, the Big Bad Wolf.
“Questions then, darling?”
More eyes appeared, so that soon Alastor’s entire frame was outlined by various sizes of needle-like pinpoints of faint light.
It didn’t necessarily occur to you that he was being serious, because was he ever serious? You couldn’t remember the last time he actually was with his wispy, spunky personality. It just solidified the fact that you barely knew the man at all. Everything inside of you screamed at you to get away as quickly as possible, or at least distance yourself more than you currently were.
Your legs, rooted to the ground, refused.
You also wanted to scream at him because he was Alastor, which was understandable. He was incredibly irritating and you weren’t sure how you were going to deal with him for the rest of your life. The idea of two other miniature Alastor’s already haunted you at night - it definitely didn’t help that the paranormal seemed to get a joy ride out of your very clear distress.
You were tired, downright exhausted, honestly.
Sure, a good chunk of it had to come from you growing two new humans, but he also ran you to the very seams. He had never laid a finger on you, and yet you felt beat down and abused, as if you were a toy that a rambunctious child had gotten their hands on. The thought of a screaming match made you nauseated, and this show he was conducting only further led you to believe you didn’t know shit about this guy.
Did you love him? You didn’t know, now.
You felt you were supposed to because he was your husband, because he was the first man to truly touch you (as naive as that sounded) but you doubted love was like this… it certainly wasn’t like anything you had experienced with your mother and father. No, this wasn't love - this was an intimidation tactic. This wasn’t written in those fucking romance novels, so you hadn’t a clue on what to do now.
From the space you occupied, you were rendered silent, for once, even if it was so brief.
What are you hiding?
You allowed your gaze to fall upon the various pinpricks of illumination scattered around him. Red, intimidating, and completely unnecessary; although as much of an enigma as Alastor was, nothing he did was necessary. It was flashy, as if you were on a stage and there was constantly an audience to impress.
You tilted your head slightly, as if an epiphany occurred to you.
“… Is this a game to you?”
Alastor’s smile, if it were possible, twisted into even more of a smirk, his eyes merely slits behind his glasses. He gave the knife a simple toss in the palm of the hand holding it, so that it flipped sides as easily as though he was simply tossing a small pebble.
With a quick, smooth flick of his wrist, the blade sank deep into the opposite wall, a short ‘twang’ ringing out as the hilt wobbled.
He straightened with a chuckle, empty hands now moving to shift away invisible dust from his front. On his shoulders, the group of otherworldly spectres remained latched, an odd parody of spectators watching a boxing match.
“Sweetheart, everything is a game,” he said simply, taking a pause to thumb his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. “The end’s the same for us all, but everything in between is fair pickings!”
You watched as one shade popped out from its nest in his styled curls, its eyes glowing faintly. This one was slightly larger than all the rest, your mind oddly observed, and seemed far more solid than the others.
Alastor raised a hand to the mass of shadows curling about his crown; the thing leached out, spindly limbs forming as it crawled down his forearm. The creature reached his elbow and with a faint pop, you found yourself staring at what you could only describe as a twin image, albeit transparent, of your husband.
Alastor’s eyes were openly greedy now as he stared at you, his nostrils flared as if some part of him expected you to flee.
“You just have to pick the right team.”
The right team?
Did this man seriously just say ‘the right team’? Your own nostrils flared, nose wrinkling alongside the narrowness of your eyes; at least now you had the inkling sense that he wasn’t taking this entire situation seriously at all.
Maybe once you would have darted away, screaming in fear of what you were witnessing, but after all you had gone through this far, his little magic trick left you numb.
Finally, it seemed, you were able to move - invisible chains less heavy as you moved towards the ringleader and his circus of clowns. The creature that stood beside him mirrored his movements down to the very atom - and that’s exactly what you stood before.
“Will you all just—“
It was with a reel of your fist that you punched through it, the mass separating like a fog before you pitched forward and landed at the ledge of the counter.
“—LEAVE!?”
Right, you were still pregnant. Couldn’t exactly fight in this state. You hated Alastor for that, too.
When you regained your balance, you turned to see that the shadow had simply taken form on the opposite side of your husband. This was so ridiculous! “All of you! Get out!” You weren’t below climbing all over him to shoo them away, either.
“I’m so sick of this, you and your little gang! God! It’s all because of these little- little! Gah! It’s all because of them that you are so secretive! I can’t know anything about you because of your stupid religion and your stupid little laws! Stupid, stupid, stupid!”
You reached up near his shoulder to smack away the one perched at his shoulder.
“They’re!”
One at the back of his head. He pitched forward a bit by the sudden force. His grin, now dangerous, only edged you on with your
“So!”
And finally, you clapped him as hard as you could on his arm, which they had all decided to perch in their escape from your attack. Every single one of them.
“ Annoying! ”
The creatures lifted from his arm like a massive cloud of black, many winged birds. Their swirling, smoke-like form throbbed and weaved as one until it separated in tiny bits, like some demented Russian Nesting Doll; many eyes blinked down at you from the safety of the cupboard tops.
“Are you done?” Alastor’s tone teetered on the edge of sounding bored, and in response your palm itched to land a smack skin to skin. “I only just got them back, my dear, nasty little things are always darting off.”
The last bit he directed upwards, eyes flickering upwards to take in the same sight as you. He clicked his tongue disapprovingly, like some mother disciplining her children and a wild giggle absurdly bubbled up but stuck in your throat.
Another snap of the man’s fingers brought your attention back; however, any attempt at continuing your tirade ( would a slap be too much?) you felt a chill erupt over your skin just as the twin thing that tailed your husband bloomed in front of you - wisps, chilly and damp, like mist rolling in off the Gulf, wrapped and coiled themselves around your limbs.
A thicker band, oddly more gentle than all the rest, wrapped around the concave of your middle, well above causing any damage to the babes nestled in your womb.
You were pulled forward so suddenly you were pitched wildly backwards, arms and legs pinned and helpless, as the heels of your shoes scraped along the hardwood. You slammed to a stop mere inches from Alastor’s face, his pupils slightly blown and his grin nearing manic.
“Let’s try this again, shall we?” His voice tapered off into a low hum.
A lone finger propped your chin up, and before you could react given the turbulence of the last few moments - not to mention your delicate physical state - the man ghosted his lips across yours.
His mouth was a stark note of warmth against the chill setting into your bones from the insidious creature wrapped around you; his touch so light you barely registered it, the feeling ever so fleeting and ticklish.
Nonetheless, Alastor pulled back with his usual air of smugness returned tenfold, a cheshire grin planted in place.
“Now,” Alastor’s voice was steady, full of brass, typical of his work tone. “It’s clear you understand the iffy parameters surrounding the, let’s call them details, of the religion. However -“ he paused, eyes moving over your features closely; his smile softened slightly, whether the man noticed or not.
“I think given your own strange initiation into the matter, we may have some loopholes at hand.”
“Oh, riddle me this, riddle me that, pish posh,” you huffed, clearly over his sudden desire to speak so cryptically in regards to the subject at hand. You respected his religion, truly, but so far it had been more trouble than it was worth ever since you had come along. “I want answers , you dingbat, not loopholes.”
Feeling utterly like a fool imprisoned by her own foolishness, you grimaced at the… what would you even call it? His other half? The darker part of him? A shadow? The living embodiment of the single goal to annoy you as much as possible?
Honestly, it felt like all of the above! Unfortunately for you, there was no escape from what was holding you where you were; it felt as though the extension that held you around your waist was weighted.
You huffed.
You puffed.
“You want to know what I want to know? I want to know you, I am trying so damn hard to know who you are but you keep me at an arm's length no matter what. And-and then there’s all of this crazy- I mean this is just crazy! Look at it! Come on, Al!”
You rapidly motioned towards your shadowed prison-guard as if your actions would reveal the utter absurdity to him. As if he didn’t know that this wasn’t normal. As if there was a chance that he could be normal.
“But most importantly,” you adopted a pleading expression this time. This was it - if he couldn’t be honest with you, you weren’t sure how you would ever be able to continue at his side. It just… wasn’t a way to live, and you knew that he had to know that.
But most important, I need you to tell me if you’re involved. If you’re the one causing havoc on the streets of New Orleans.
Alastor wasn’t an idiot (although sometimes you were hesitant to admit that), in fact, he was one of the smartest guys you had ever come to know. The crazy life he had given you was one that you were sure some flappers envied - albeit, you weren’t sure why. He was an incredibly stressful character of a man.
That said, he was also wonderful and incredible in other ways. Ways that made you envious of his blatant talent for things: Hunting, his dedication, singing, sweet-talking, making you laugh, making others laugh, charming stern souls like your father into not beating his ass once he had found out what had happened…
He could be sweet when he wanted to be, sure, but it was dangerous enough that it could lead you to believe he was the perfect family man. The perfect everything. What was a mask? What was real? Who was Alastor? Or would you forever be forced to chase around a fictional idea of someone that never and would never exist?
Would you drive yourself insane before your story ended? Would the narrator grow bored of your constant thoughts, your constant worry? Would he be the cause of your demise?
“… If you won’t tell me everything, just tell me something.”
Patience and dedication.
The walking string bean of a fool in front of you certainly made it no easier when he openly rolled his eyes once your verbal onslaught had ended. Nonetheless, his grin had churned into more of a grimace as he eyed you closely. He gave a huff of his own, a sound you aren’t overly accustomed to the man making, and gave a snap of his fingers; your shadowy capture dissipated around you before popping up just behind its master.
Both Alastors blinked at you, the silence between you stretching out far more than you had hoped. A quiet Alastor was never a good one, or so you had come to decide (of course, a talking Al was also dangerous).
“You said you did not wish to fight anymore…” the real Alastor began, voice faltering slightly in a rare moment of hesitation - your rejection was still forefront, whether he would ever admit it -
“And I don’t wish to make this a… disappointing venture for you, my dear.”
Behind him, his shadow shimmered, form undulating while it’s maw opened and closed as if mimicking Alastor’s own stalling.
“You’ve gotten this far,” the man stated blandly, keen eyes flashing behind his glasses; his lips were beginning to slant into a strange half pout, of all things, one upturned corner twitching as though he were fighting internally.
“Can’t that be enough?”
Your heart ached, tender and soft and yearning for something that you weren’t allowed. Peace, calm - how different would your lives be if that were so readily available? For the first time in your individual attempt at interrogation, you hesitated; gaze once so heated and furious now reserved and quiet.
“I’ve gotten this far,” you started slowly, attempting to reach your hand out to your husband’s arm. Touch had always been your love language, and you were desperately trying to hold onto the idea that you were just an overreacting idiot. So much for not touching each other.
Instead of seeking out his comfort though, you merely smoothed out a rivet in his sleeve before returning your arm to your side. There was an invisible force that separated you, for the moment.
“That’s precisely why I need to know , Alastor.”
Know what, exactly? You weren’t sure, but the steadily rising thrum of your heart rate, you were beginning to believe that it was nothing good.
Alastor’s eyes had dropped to the spot on his forearm your fingers had brushed against; usually your touch only fanned the flame in his chest, and yet instead your fingertips had left goosebumps in their wake.
“You stated your beliefs before,” the man murmured, voice so softly and faint it was nearly lost just in the sound of your shared breathing. “And yet you’ve stayed…”
Again, Alastor seemed to lose his voice, this time his eyes jumping to catch yours, his brows furrowed so that his strong features looked shadowed, closed off.
One hand twitched and then as if losing some inner battle, he brought his hand up into the air and with a neat twist of his wrist, had a clove in his fingers, having plucked it from thin air. When he moved to light it next, the flame lit from within his cupped palm. The man shook his hand to extinguish it, but the skin stayed unmarked or hurt in any way.
You watched, remaining silent in some odd offering of allowing him the time and space to come to some conclusion despite the strange ongoing show of, well, what you could only guess was Alastor showing off; he puffed and inhaled deeply, smoke curling about his head like a proverbial thunderstorm gathering.
“And if I am said killer? What then?” Alastor finally spoke, words stronger than before; his shadow, still mute, warbled and drew in closer to its master, it’s blank, bright eyes locked on you from over his shoulder.
“What does the beloved yet betrayed wife do?”
For such a simply worded question, the gritty underbite to his voice left no doubt as to what he was alluding to; you were both teetering on the percible of yet more unchartered territory, the man’s concern open and raw in a way no one else often saw. This last showing of intimidation, the use of his clipped tone, all done to soothe the churn of fear beginning to fester in his gut.
There was no coming back from this particular plot twist, after all!
Alastor raised a hand, palm open in offer; the silence in the kitchen seemed to press in on your eardrums, so heavy and serious was the tension between you. His gaze was hooded, the clove forgotten between the forefinger and thumb of the hand still at his side, as he stared you down in anticipation.
It was like a war drum rapping at your heart, and you found yourself teetering on the edge of no return. What would you do? You could scream at him in anger, you could pound your fists on his chest, demanding to know why, why, why— and yet, almost instinctively, your gaze faltered towards where the telephone remained.
In a world where you weren’t weighed down by the remnants of lustful action, perhaps you would have tried to make a break for it. Run towards the phone and throw everything you had at him to deter him from catching up to you; but, ironically, you were no longer so nimble. Truthfully, you never thought you would get this far, somehow convincing yourself that he would never cave and give you the answers you so desperately sought.
And now that he spoke like he truly was an unconvicted psychopath, you realized that you had never felt fear quite like this. You were naive to believe that you had ever come close.
You were still just a girl, barely even a grown woman - at the age of twenty-two, naivety was still a clear factor in your daily life; there were many things that you hadn’t experienced quite yet, and events that had yet to occur to shape the rest of your time here on earth. But this? You doubted there was anyone you could talk to about this… anyone to mentor for advice.
You felt nauseated, a cold flush clawing up your spine; the world seemed to grow still, blood rushing through your ears as your heart rate grew faster and faster until you knew that your breathing was audible. And then an expulsion of air from your lungs, a giggle and then finally you crumpled forward into a fit of laughter.
God, your life was so fucked up!
The room remained silent save for that incessant ticking of the living room clock and of course your overwhelming laughter. It hurt to laugh so hard, your lungs struggled to gain enough oxygen before forcing it to dispel from your body. The thing that was funniest to you though, the thing that really had you losing it, was that you knew that you could do nothing about it.
Because if you did, he wouldn’t have a fair trial. No, he would have hundreds of people and fans that he wooed outside of his house, throwing and shouting and breaking things down. He wouldn’t even be allotted a life sentence, no, he would be hung . That in and of itself was perhaps the most merciful way you could think of.
Man, you were losing it, weren’t you?
Your breath whistled through your teeth as you brought your hands to your face. If what he was truly referring to was indeed true, this story wouldn’t be a happy one. Your life would be full of horrors that not a soul could possibly imagine.
You attempted to catch your breath, to no avail:
“If you were,” tears drenched your cheeks - although you were unsure if it was due to your laughter, anger, or sadness. Maybe all three. You looked up at him, him and all of his towering, glorious prowess, and frowned.
“… Then you would be a monster.”
Alastor stood before you, remaining stock still even as the cigarette in his hand continued to burn down, his eyes set upon you unwavering in their intensity. His lips twitched as if some unbidden thought had attempted to tumble from them; however, even now with unspoken tensions so high, his lithe musculature lent itself to nothing but poise and grace. His grin had softened only slightly, had wilted more like, in light of the tears staining the apples of your cheeks.
“I can live with that…” the words were whispered, reverently, as though the man was speaking more to himself than directly at you. “Time will tell if you can.”
Over Alastor’s shoulder, his twin shade doubled in on itself and seemed to waver, before expanding monstrously, it’s maw lined with needle-like fangs gnashing anxiously. As if the thing were whispering in his ear, Alastor’s head tipped slightly in the creature's direction, his grin tightening on his face like a wound-up elastic.
“Good point, old boy,” the man muttered, before he harshly clapped his hands together - the abrasive sound made you flinch where you stood - and in spite of it, Alastor’s strong hands came to wrap gently around your forearms. Your frazzled mind tracked his movements, registering the feel of his fingers lacing with your own as your pulse raced and your breath shuttered in your lungs all the same.
“Showtime, my dear!” Alastor threw you a wink, his voice clipped yet guttural in his cry; the pressure behind his tug as he pulled you forward left little room for anything other than blind acceptance.
The loud bang that echoed from the screen door closing on your retreating forms did little to stir you from the vapid submission your object fear had prompted in you. Your bare feet hit the sun-warmed grass moments later, mind barely registering the change in texture from the smooth tiles of the kitchen; instead, you moved forwards, nearly jogging on tip toe in order to keep pace, all while Alastor’s hand remained locked in its vice grip with yours, his form surging onwards just in front of you.
You were headed into the craggily canopy of the bayou, the sound of far off water and the smell of rich, heady soil assaulting your senses. In any other moment, you might have taken the time to enjoy the way the sunlight dappled across the material of his shirt as it stretched over the broadness of his back; the deeper the pair of you moved, the branches of the trees laden with Spanish moss, blocked more and more of the comforting warmth.
Another wave of terror, a feeling so old and primal it stemmed from every atom in your very core, locked your muscles; your heels dug in, thinking little of the way the mud and silt bubbled up from the spaces between your toes. The coolness of the dirt against your fevered skin was surely the cause of the chill that goose stepped down your spine; that, and perhaps the tilt of Alastor’s grin as he spun to match your gaze.
You only realized you had gone to speak to him - perhaps to bargain your return to the (objective given your circumstances) safety of the house, or perhaps to rage and throw fists in open fury at what was clearly his sudden and abrupt departure from his last remaining dregs of sanity - when your teeth clacked together as your body was pitched upwards.
Alastor simply marched on, easily moving over the terrain despite the fact that he now carried your full weight, bridal style, in his arms.
Panic flooded your body, muscles tensing and twitching as nerves fired in response to the flood of stress hormones. Your hands flew everywhere, nails scrabbling and scratching against anything you gained purchase on; the material of his shirt, his skin, anything that might bring him a good dose of pain and snap him back -
Pressure landed, minutely but pressure all the same, in the spot just between your knitted brows; Alastor had pressed the pad of one thumb to the spot, your confused and scared eyes catching his just past the obstruction of his large hand before everything, mercifully, went dark and your body went completely lax in his hold.
And then, nothing.
.
.
.
You awoke sharply sometime later, consciousness having evaded you for who knows how long as you found yourself laid out on your side in the dirt. Alastor’s outer shirt laid over you as if some comforting blanket, which you admittedly found yourself wincing at. How could such a sweet gesture belong to such a monster. Monster, monster, monster—
Your muscles sang their displeasure as you attempted to move into a sitting position, ultimately shaking some of the feeling back into your limbs. Your expression soured even further because, judging by the stiffness in your core and the dry taste lingering on your palate, you had been out for quite a while.
Of course.
Enough, you saw once you looked around, for the sun to have set, the chilly twinkle of twilight colouring the sky a deeper blue. You raised a shaking hand to your face, pressing on your eyelids until stars bloomed behind your lid, mirroring the night around you. Your breathing was ragged, deep and pulling in a way that made a stitch blossom painfully on one side.
Everything hurt.
Still, nothing but the cool evening breeze whispered over your form, still prone in the dirt and grime, the heat of the summer sun long having left your skin; goosebumps littered your flesh, your pulse steadily rising in your eardrums as your heartbeat heavy in your chest.
Until… the faint sounds of footsteps caught your attention; your breath stuttered slightly, another cold shock of fear running down your spine; the other stopped just short of where you remained hunched over and hidden, like some five year old playing hide and seek behind the cover of your hand.
“There you are,” a familiar voice spoke, tone honeyed and soothing, as if he had not just abducted you and dumped you in the middle of some fucking swamp. “You were out long enough, sweetheart.”
You reeled back, your hand dropping into a curl of a fist; the rosy color that once dusted your knuckles now grew pale in comparison. From the grin he had the nerve to flash at you now, you came to the acceptance that you would offer him affection in the form of a right hook, if he got close enough, this is.
He stood primly before you, despite the fact that he was dressed in only his under shirt now, the cuffs of his slacks rolled up as if to keep from the mud, the sight of his shadowed features fanned the flame of anger in your gut all the same.
“F-fuck you,” you spat, all venom and bitter fury in light of this on going charade of utter bullshit . “You knocked me out, you dipshit!”
Priorities - you’d circle back to the kidnap-ish undertones later
You gestured vaguely to the swell of your tummy; your hand shook with unrelenting anger, and some part of you felt a swell of justifiable ego as you caught Alastor’s gaze lingering on the tremble of your fingers. His cheek gave an odd, subconscious twitch, as if the ghost of a previous slap still lived in the muscle.
“Yes well, as regrettable as that was,” Alastor bumped the frames of his glasses up the ridge of his nose; simultaneously, behind him some giant bonfire instantly lit, burning bright and hot as though it had been fueled for hours.
“I believe we are well past the point of idle chit-chat, my dear! Far easier to just show you.”
The man clapped his hands together, his usual level of infectious energy and exuberance completely at odds with the fact that you were very much in the bowels of the bayou, under the blackening night sky with nothing a raging fire and a crescent moon to light your way.
Most embers landed just close enough for you to be aware of the sparks, but for the ones that managed to land upon your now tattered and worn (he really had the audacity to ruin yet another one) dress, barely riding up on your knees, you didn’t make much motion to move out of the way from the rapid fire. Even the burn of them managed to fan the flame of your anger even further.
He, the one that you had admired for quite a while, he, the one that held you close and told you sweet nothings, he, the one that had gotten you to smile and laugh after your episodic depression, he, the one that you had convinced yourself to have loved , was no more than a monster shrouded in the image of a man.
He spoke to his victims like they were good friends — why?
And if that wasn’t the worst betrayal, you weren’t sure what was.
“You’re crazy.”
And still, you couldn’t think of a more clever comeback than that. Perhaps he really had beaten you down for good. Maybe this was it, he would kill you and your unborn children - was this enough entertainment for him? Have you reached the end? Was this what all your fears and memories would amount to?
Ruth, your father, your mother… the regular people that spent their drab, mundane lives continuing to exist. He was going to kill you now, right? He was going to put you over a fire and eat your remains, or maybe sacrifice you to his gods… and you couldn’t do anything about it.
.
.
.
What the fuck were you saying? For real?
No, you weren’t about to go down without a fight. You weren’t just some everyday nosy wallflower, nor were you someone to be underestimated. If he was going to keep working on that fire to cook you to a crisp, then god damn it you were going to fight. It wasn’t just about you anymore, either. It was often observed that the man of the house would be the primary protector, but if anyone thought you wouldn’t—
He knocked you out. He put you in danger.
You grabbed a branch amongst the many on the ground, stood up with your shaky legs, and dragged it behind you. The thistles of grass were indented by its weight. The branch itself looked more like a limb of a tree, and given its density, you wouldn’t have been surprised if it was. The exhaustion your body expressed was temporarily overrun by survival instinct.
Would you really hit your husband with a branch? Your conscience inquired.
Without a doubt, you replied.
And so you swung.
Your aim was righteously true, your hit landing squarely on the joint of his shoulder, the wood making a thoroughly satisfying and solid thunk as it connected with the tender bone there.
From where the man had stooped to add, ironically, more fuel to the fire, the force of your hit caused Alastor to pitch forward just slightly; his strong core meant he was able to steady himself without the use of his hands, which promptly threw themselves outwards in an attempt to stop your second swing from connecting.
“Darling, stop!” Alastor yelped, sounding like some child about to resort to blandly bawling to get their way. His long legs carried him away from the reach of the branch you still weld in your grip.
You levered the branch in your hands, limbs shaking with the strange rush of energy your anger had gifted you. Using the momentum of your last swing, you hoisted the wood higher and took a step in his direction, your intent clear.
Alastor, for his credit, pranced another few steps backwards, keeping himself out of reach and further bodily harm. His glasses slipped down his nose, lubricated by the small, light sheen of sweat he had worked up from his station by the fire. The man thumbed them back into place before shifting his hands up again in the universal sign of ‘please don’t whoop my ass’
He called your name, a small thimble of laughter dripping past his lips, the sound drily amused all the same.
“Come now, my darling,” Alastor soothed, his feet still moving as he waltz around you, some parody of a dance partner as he kept his keen eyes on the wood in your hands. “This is hardly called for, if you’d just give me a moment to finish setting up, I think we can get this properly sorted.”
“Properly sorted? Properly sorted!?” You swung the branch again, this time the force causing you to lose your balance slightly, and you stumbled forward. Alastor, however, was of no assistance and you were certain that you would have bitten him if he had tried. “This ain’t a dinner party, you— you-!”
With a growl, you trudged towards the fire and dipped the tip into the snapping flames. Eagerly, it swallowed it. Now, with a flaming stick wielded in your grasp, you took another step forward; flame and smoke illuminating your rounded figure.
Yes, you were pregnant, but you were a very angry pregnant woman, you’d have him know!
Two things that were never good to have hand in hand.
“I am not about to listen to reason from someone who commits genocide! On my people! How dare you! I trusted you!”
Alastor stopped his pacing, his much taller frame lit up by the dancing flame at the end of your impromptu weapon.
His face wavered in and out of focus, flickering shadows casting grimaces and frowns where the skin remained unbothered, his true features set in a stoney smile.
His shadow seemed to stay true to form, mundane and utterly human, where it fell behind him. It seemed Alastor’s shadowy companion came and went as it saw fit, something some part of you found oddly hilarious; Voodoo Daddy had his limits, it would seem.
Your words, sharp and accusatory, hung in the air like some proverbial hangman’s noose.
“Your people…” Alastor elucidated, voice bland and strangely hollow; the burning flame still engulfing the end of your branch reflected off the polished frames of his glasses, making his eyes glow red in the dusty darkness.
Behind the pair of you, the larger fire crackled and popped, curling plumes of smoke into the night air. The breeze from before shifted lazily through the canopy, leaves rustling and whispering in its current.
A few embers popped and sizzled where they landed in the damper soil, churned up by the frantic and odd movement between the pair of you. Even the sound of the crackling wood, crisping and turning to ash as the fire consumed it hungrily, began to tickle your ears in a way that reminded you of playground gossip (excited voices, jumbled messages).
Alastor sighed then, his eyes finally dropping their connection with yours, just as the breeze picked up, teasing his curls about the crown of his face; the tatters of your dress fluttered about you, the flame at the end of the branch still tightly grasped in hand floundering as the wind continued to grow.
“Unfortunately,” Alastor’s voice cut through the rising din of the wind; the canopy above was beginning to lash back and forth, while the sawgrass at your calves cut bitingly into any skin it could find. Ash and smoke stung your eyes, causing you to close them as the wind seemed to pick up, only to circle in some maddening whirlwind about your person.
“My friends tend to hold less than stellar opinions of such people.”
You caught one last glimpse of Alastor, his back straight and his eyes bright, completely unaffected, it would appear by the vast cloud of smoke, inky black, that moved to swallow him from view.
You narrowed your eyes against the still high wind; the wood in your hand flared brightly before the flame began to dim, the strength of the wind buffeting it so that it flickered and jumped, sputtering lower and lower until it finally extinguished. To add insult to injury, as if it possessed nimble fingers of its own, the wind plucked the smouldering branch, easily yanking its dead weight from your fingertips.
The smoke swirled, colliding with the plumes from the raging bonfire, about your frame. There, whorling in the depths and backlit by red ash and flames of blistering heat - faces, terrible and twisted, leered at you, gifting you flashes of horror and tales of human woe that clouded your mind's eye.
Images of suffering, torment, complete and utter failures of human decency, bitter and unjust on your palate, assaulted your mind; at the center of each flashing moment, each a mere second in a life already lived and sacrificed, stood a lone figure, straight back and proud, coattails of crimson trailing behind him as the whispers of the wind grew to pitched levels, voices raised in chanting praise.
And then, just as suddenly as it had all begun, just as your brain was turning sluggish as a result of the visual onslaught - it ended, with one last gust of wind and a heavy, overly pronounced hush falling on an otherwise silent swamp.
The bonfire cracked merrily behind you, accompanying the gentle sway of the canopy above. The breeze, once again gentle and soothing, brushed the curls off the forehead of the man in front of you, the fool grinning as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred.
A full body tremble steamrolled it’s way over your entire form, from your knees knocking to your molars chattering as you grit your jaw to try and ground yourself.
“So?” Alastor spoke steadily, although his lips were the only part of him to move in the moment. “What does she do?”
The stick adorned with a halo of flame and smoke had become extinguished during the triad of his circus show - you knew this because your attention remained solely focused on it, as if it could continue to root you in the present. For the first time, your barrage of thoughts were nowhere to be found on the forefront of your mind. Instead, all you felt was a mixture of betrayal, exhaustion, and incredulousness. It was utterly ridiculous.
It was sad.
It was ugly.
“I can’t leave you,” you replied solemnly - you couldn’t even bear to look at him. Defeated; you had gotten what you wanted, hadn’t you? But at the cost of your relatively peaceful life? Was it even worth it? With a hiss, you toss the burnt stick off to the side, and finally, with the remaining strength you had in your legs, you found yourself closing the distance between the two of you.
He wanted to know what you would do? As if this were some sort of script? As if he were a mere onlooker and you were the entertainment on some stage?
“But if I could, I would.”
You twisted the ring off of your finger and dropped it between you. It landed in the soft grass as if it had meant to be there to begin with. Still, you did not look up to gather his expression; you were frightened of the idea that his wouldn’t have changed at all, but more so of what he would look like if it did.
“Take me home, Alastor.”
Any lingering noise pollution bleeding into the night air immediately ceased, the breeze even seemingly easing off in its incessant picking at your hair and tattered clothing.
From his position still near, Alastor made no outward reaction to your cold words; he remained as poised and elegant despite the rolled up slacks and now -stained undershirt, his glasses slanting in an entirely far too charming manner on his nose.
Therefore, you heard rather than saw something undeniably heavy, reaching blindly from some place far too close for your own subconscious liking, slithering and coiling across the blades of grass that stretched between you and the all too infamous killer of New Orleans; whatever it was was solid enough for the delicate metal of your ring to tinkle, ever so faint, against its form as your ring was plucked and, you assumed, returned to the man still and quiet behind.
Alastor heaved a deep sigh, his eyes tracking the perfect circle of your ring as he flipped it casually from knuckle to knuckle of one hand.
He watched it, as if mesmerized in part by his own actions, the polished metal sparkle in the low light of the now dying bonfire; its swoops and falls between his fingers adaptly mirrored the rollercoaster of emotion twisting his gut and for once in his many years, Alastor found himself unable to articulate the blossom of disappointment growing there.
His smile had long slumped into an odd half-grimace, more teeth than good humor, although with your form still turned away from him (your rejection stung, far more than he wanted), you did not notice.
“Well,” the man’s gruff words, voice hoarse from lack of use during his little show; to stifle the odd lingering emotion that threatened the clarity of his next words, Alastor stopped fiddling with your ring and instead pressed it sharply to the inside of his palm.
“I won’t lie and say that’s not quite the opposite of how I had imagined this,” he muttered, now sounding as if he was speaking more to the breeze than to you - given his clearly deranged mental state, you argued with yourself it was quite possible he was talking to the damn wind.
“Unfortunately for you, darling, and whatever silly notions of demure heroism you’ve dreamt up by condemning yourself to be by my side, I meant what I said before the altar…”
Spidery fingers, long and warm despite the chill in the late evening air, grasped your chin and brought your eyes back and up so that you merely blinked and found yourself staring back at Alastor’s own dark eyes.
Your heart leapt in the same second (you hadn’t heard him move, in spite of how quiet the atmosphere had remained), and if your pulse jumped you were sure the monster in front of you caught it, his gaze tracking the slim column of your throat as you tried to breath against the rising tide of fear welling in your chest.
If you thought to fight him off or spurn him with another mean cut of your tongue, it was all lost at the first feeling of his mouth ghosting against yours; his puff of breath washing hotly over the tear tracks still marring your face. Your breath caught in your throat all the same, unshed tears beginning to burn the corners of your eyes, mind and body beyond exhaustion and coherent action.
“...to the grave, you and I.”
Alastor’s words, followed by the cold press of your wedding band to your chest (his palm seemed to burn against your skin as he brushed against you), were all you knew before the world abruptly went black, the whispering wind and filtered moonlight of the Bayou fading into the background as you went down .
A soft grunt and a string of curses fell on your unhearing ears as Alastor shifted your unconscious body better into his arms, and with another sigh, did as you had asked, and began the long walk back to the little quiet house perched at the end of the little, quiet street.