Chapter Text
His limbs are always uncooperative in the morning, and his consciousness is never quite there before he's had a cup of coffee. So the detached feeling he experiences as he opens his eyes and sits up doesn't raise any alarms.
Alastor grows a bit more concerned when his eyes trail around the bedroom, stopping on every piece of furniture and decorative picture frame. He doesn't know why he does it, nor does he understand why he opens his hands in front of him, examining each little scar and mole. He tries to move them, to rub the crust off his eyes, and finds he cannot.
He stands up. Or, by now, it's more accurate to say that his body stands up. Without any input from him, it goes straight to the bathroom, and bracing itself against the sink, looks into the mirror. He watches, now properly in the edge of a panic, as his easy smile grows into something more deranged, one hand raising to touch his cheek.
"Well, would you look at that?" He hears and feels himself say it. Yet, he's sure those words do not come from him.
«What is this? What is happening?»
And, just as he has that thought… Alastor comes back to himself with a gasp. In his surprise, he tips forward, his grip on the sink tightening, and his knees buckle. When he raises his head, and this time he's sure it's Alastor who raises it, he finds the mirror reflecting a fearful expression back.
He writes it off as sleepwalking.
He's never sleepwalked one day of his life, but it's close enough to the way he's heard it described. It seems… harmless enough, momentary, and unlikely to repeat.
It repeats a week after that.
This time he's at a speakeasy, having just finished a performance alongside Mimzy, sitting at the bar while nursing a drink. He feels the adrenaline leave him as he sinks into his own arms, not fully drunk but content in his tipsiness, simply enjoying the music and atmosphere around him.
He sits up, quite suddenly, hands smacking against the wooden bar. And once again, there is the eye movement, turning his head in all directions, drinking every face and object around. His chest vibrates with a chuckle, and he stands up. Alastor greets some people, dances with Mimzy once more, buys another drink, all of this without meaning to.
He exits the building, rests his back against the back wall, and smokes a cigarette, eyes fixed on the night sky all throughout. That's how he once again regains control, with his lungs filled with smoke, caught in the middle of the exhaling motion, choking and coughing until his throat feels raw.
Looking at the cig as if it had bitten him, he crushes it under his foot and decides to cut the night short, going back home right away.
The third time it happens, he's at work.
He's been given a fairly difficult script, and only fifteen minutes to practice beforehand. Mouthing the words under the watchful eyes of his producers, the best he can manage is to breathe in, then out, so that by the time the ON AIR sign lights up, the stress has been smothered and his heart has calmed into a placid beat.
For a moment, he doesn't move.
He thinks:
«I'm freezing? I don't even remember the last time I froze. Damnit, I can't freeze here!»
But he isn't frozen. It's the opposite, in fact. Without his input, his mouth moves, "Welcome back, dear listeners!" he says, tone perfectly jovial as he takes hold of the mic, "It's been a while, has it not? Allow me to make up for it by giving you a broadcast you won't forget!"
He— Not him, but— He improvises, glancing at the paper script now and then, picking the main beats, then building around them into a rhythm that's as clever as it's fun. He makes up jokes on the spot, references classic literature and modern shows alike, surveys the white men on the outside of the booth and fucking winks when one of the segments actually manages to get them to crack a smile.
It's the best performance of his life.
And it's also not his performance at all. Nor is it him who walks out of the radio tower once it's over, a skip to his steps. It's not him who takes a detour on the way home, driving his car towards the outskirts, towards the bayou. It's not him who picks up a crowbar from the trunk and walks a straight line through the wilderness until he finds the cabin, it's not him who pries loose two wooden boards on the back.
It's not him who takes out all the elements he's so carefully collected throughout the years for his rituals, all the bones and desiccated body parts, all the symbols imbued with power and the ancient summoning book.
It's most definitely not him who throws everything outside on a messy pile and sets it on fire.
He screams inside his own head, fights for control over his limbs, curses whatever it is that's controlling him —For, by now, it's pretty clear that's what's going on.
«STOP STOP THAT STOP WHAT ARE YOU DOING STOP»
"I'm doing you a favor," his own mouth says, sitting besides the pile and waiting until everything, so many years of work, is reduced to ashes.
«What are you?»
"You are smarter than this, Alastor," the… thing says. Responds. It can hear him think, it— "I'm sure you can figure it out."
And then he's back in control. Taking off his vest and shirt, using them to beat the fire out however he can. He can't save a single thing, in the end.
He returns to the city in a daze. He throws all the books he owns to the living room floor, annotates every single mention of possessions and control. The rituals he can perform right away, he does. The ones he can't, he gets working on right away. Once the sun goes up, he visits all the occult shops and seance rooms he knows of, uses every connection he has to gain material, amulets, tokens, more books. He gathers all the information he's accrued and hides them in the same safe where he keeps a gun. If the glances it always throws around upon arriving mean anything, Alastor is going to bet the thing can't truly see him while it isn't around.
For the following two weeks his life is defined by sleeping, going to work, and putting in practice this or that form of exorcism. He even goes to his old church, the one he hadn't visited since his mother passed away, and seeks a blessing from the priest.
He doesn't know if any of it worked, has no way to know. The entity doesn't appear during that period, but he knows it can go dormant for a while. His fear is soon proven right.
He wakes up— It wakes him up from where he passed out on the couch from pure exhaustion. It sits up, yawns, stretches. Alastor is waiting for… he doesn't know, for it to snap its bones and twist his body into something awful?
Instead, it goes to the kitchen, opens the freezer, frowns at its lack of contents, "My, forgot to buy groceries?" it says, "That's so unlike you,"
«What are you? What do you want?»
"Right now? I'm hungry. Or should I say we are hungry? You are starving, really," it says, holding its belly, "Oh, but I guess this is a chance to eat out. Yes, and what I want is to go to Miss Beatrice's, it's been about a century since I had a good muffuletta."
«If it's a deal you want—»
"Oh, don't be ridiculous," it says, getting dressed, picking up his keys, stepping outside, "What could you possibly have to offer me that I don't already own?"
«It's my body you're possessing. What if I simply stop eating? That starvation will be worse than the hunger you feel now»
"Then you starve. And that's it. It'll hurt you more than me," it shrugs, "And don't even try saying you'll kill yourself, because we both know you won't. Not without securing your place in hell first,"
«My place in hell… You would know about that, wouldn't you?»
"Making assumptions, aren't we?"
«No ritual I have made would have summoned a simple ghost. A demon, however…»
"There you are, assuming your rituals worked. I assure you, sweetheart, my presence here has nothing to do with any of that."
«Then you must be all the more powerful! An entity able to pierce the veil by itself»
"And now flattery, huh?"
«Surely someone with such powers could—»
"I think not," the demon says. Stops, "Oh, we're here." Then, sitting on the counter like a normal person, he orders something to eat. "This is the best sandwich shop you'll ever try, you know?" he says, sinking his teeth into the muffuletta, chewing, swallowing, "You think it's nothing special because you have it down the block, but believe me. You will never find another one that's quite the same. Enjoy it while you can!"
There has to be something he can say, some offer, some threat, some combination of words that solve this all. There always is. So Alastor thinks, discarding three ideas for every one he comes up with. And all the while, the demon eats, drinks, buys a newspaper from a newsie passing by.
His body stiffens. His muscles lock up, as his eyes stop over the picture of a man the demon is eyeing with interest.
"There might actually be something you can help me with," it says, folding the newspaper, setting it aside, "A little vacation."
«A… vacation?»
"Yes. Yes, there's someone I need to kill," it nods, "But I'm afraid I might not be able to be present for the entire trip. New York is far, you see. Get me there so I can kill him, and I'll get off your hair."
It's tempting. It's very tempting to accept right there and then. But… Demons are liars, is the one thing all the texts could agree on.
«How do I know you're telling the truth?»
"You don't."
«Surely you can show me some proof. I know about contracts, what they mean. If we make a deal—»
"Let's try something else."
It stands up.
The demon moves towards the kitchen door, entering without caring for who might see. Beatrice is at the stove, she turns as she hears him come in.
"Alastor?" She says, "Customers are not allowed here, dear. Was there something wrong with your food, or—?"
The demon takes a knife, a step forward, and slits Beatrice's throat.
«What are you doing? People might notice! At least lock the door!»
"Ah, yes, and you're always so careful," it says, rolling its eyes.
He doesn't know what it intends, when he lifts Beatrice, still alive, convulsing, gurgling, by the hair. Then—
Alastor's teeth sink into her neck. Cut. Rip. The metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, it drips down his chin, covering his clothes. The meat, raw, soft, slimy, crunchy, he can feel it tear under his canines, can hear every single wet sound the demon makes as it chews. Veins, fat, muscle, skin. All of it turns into a wet ball, one that feels too big to fit inside his mouth, too big to go down his throat, and yet it does. He feels every second up until it falls into his stomach, can feel his smile grow.
Then, it bites again, and again. Eats everything around the column, then cracks it between its fists. The head and the body fall, separately, to the floor.
Alastor's mind is too drowned in static to say anything. Too focused on the revolting feeling of flesh melting inside his gut.
"Let's put it like this," the demon says, licking the blood off his fingers, savouring it, licking its lips, "You will go to New York this weekend. Or I will…" It laughs, "Your mother died five years ago, and you spent all your savings on giving her a Christian burial. Did I get that right ? So. Do you think you would enjoy it, if I dug up her grave, cracked her ribs, and sucked the marrow off her bones?"
«I—»
"I can't stay for long," the demon says, "Clean up for me."
And Alastor falls to his knees in a puddle of blood, shoving his fingers down his throat, his still blood soaked fingers, and forcing himself to throw up.