"'We the undersigned, Leslie Nichols and Alastor, no-last-name-given, do solemnly swear, before such time as midnight on the 1st of December…'" Alastor read it with the bored, impassive tone of a professor looking over the umpteenth essay of the day, then his eyes flickered to Leslie across the desk. "And from there," he said, "you should describe the minimum you require of me, in exchange for the things I want from you."

Leslie sat back in the guest chair. Just half an hour ago, she had been preparing to leave the hotel, and now they were completing paperwork together. First of all, she was amazed she'd got him to agree to a written contract, but she wondered if, perhaps, he would still have the upper hand. Alastor was a dealmaker, after all.

"What are the things you want from me?" she asked.

"I'll be detailing that shortly. First, I want you to write-"

"I know, I know." Leslie gazed at the intimidatingly blank sheet of paper which sat before her on the desk. "So… if I omit something, it won't happen, right? Or the other way - something could happen, when I don't actually want it to."

"You've used contracts before. Yes, I'm afraid this document will have to be quite graphic. But it was your idea, I'll remind you, and nobody will see it. It shall, however, be binding. Once we sign, I'll be compelled to do as the agreement says, as will you… but we can always leave some room for bargaining. It's more interesting that way."

"I want a lawyer," she said.

"Hell is full of them. But I think you have a good sense of what is reasonable and enforceable."

"Right," Leslie said. "And we can amend as we go?"

"That's right. Go ahead."

"Hm." She hesitated. "Well, there's no singular scenario in my mind. It goes different ways depending on my mood."

"Do I ever... hurt you?" Alastor asked. His eyes glimmered with possibility.

She couldn't lie to him. "A little," she said.

"Interesting."

"Well you know, a woman's heart is an ocean. Ha ha…" He wasn't laughing. "OK, I'm writing now."

"Good."

Leslie considered what she was prepared to write: the things she wanted to pass between them. "Hm," she said, not knowing where to begin.

"You're blushing, aren't you?" he said. "Poor baby."

"Can you let me make bad choices for five minutes without passing comment?"

To be fair, he remained silent for some time, watching and listening to her write. She would glance up occasionally to make sure, and he never looked away, even for a fraction of a second. Leslie remembered every fantasy she'd ever conjured, every exchange, every scary, demonic fuck, and knew that he was about to read it, possibly aloud. It was a new and exquisite form of humiliation, but she persevered, knowing it would be worse in the long run to omit it from the contract, and live with regret.

Eventually, having clinically detailed her private, feverish imaginings, she set down the pen. She was finished for now, and her ears felt white-hot from the anticipation of what came next. He leaned forward and took the papers, then read what she had written - silently, thank God!

"Let's see here." His casual smirk stayed put for some time, until a later sentence caused his eyebrows to rise. "Hm. Not exactly what I was expecting."

"Which part?"

"This." He showed her, tapping his claw against the offending line.

"I thought you'd like that," she said. Didn't most men? He laughed quietly, biting his lip, and Leslie summoned the strength not to melt onto the floor and ruin the carpet forever. "Your move, Alastor."

He turned his wicked gaze to the document and began to write, left arm curled around the paper, taking his time. To her amusement, he paused now and then to look at her, just as she'd paused for him.

"How's this?"

Leslie examined the block of text. She had to admit, he had lovely handwriting. Perhaps a calligraphy lesson from 80 years ago. First of all, Alastor reiterated what he said before: he wanted her to be reactionary, flustered, fearful, and so on; but if he was worried about that, he had no reason to be. She was going to feel that way no matter what. He also proposed his own ideas for future encounters. Many of them agreed with hers; others were less standard, more experimental. "I don't think you can do that just by murmuring to me," she said.

"But you'll allow me to try, of course."

She blushed again. "I guess." Back to reading. "Er... OK, OK, drawing blood I'm definitely not sure about."

"Ah," he said, "but with my teeth, it may happen accidentally. Besides, I can heal you a second later. Not even a scar."

This she had to see. "Show me," she said, offering her wrist across the desk, and almost as quickly, Alastor's hand snaked out, scoring a line in her flesh. "AAAHyafucking—-!" She withdrew her arm. What an idiot. Exactly what he wanted you to do.

"Well? Let me fix it."

Grudgingly, she obliged, and watched him trace the cut with his fingertip. As he tasted the blood, Leslie was astonished to see that he had kept his word. No sign of injury, no pain; only a few hairs were missing.

"How-?"

"Demons can recover quite quickly, I just sped it up. Was that bearable?"

She glared at him, both suspicious at his intentions, and wondering what a man as cruel as Alastor was doing with a capability for healing. An image swam to mind of him leaning over one of his victims, closing up his lashes from the whip in order to make new lashes, and that was a terrifying thought. Seizing the pen, she declared, "This is not an excuse to torture me. I'm making a list of places where cutting and biting isn't allowed."

"Spoilsport. Fine."

"And scratching," she added. A thought occurred. "...OK, soft biting, maybe."

"My turn again?" He borrowed the paper. "I think the office only, although I may change that at my discretion, so long as it doesn't break our secret."

"No PDA," she said.

"No PDA. ... Alright. Go ahead and review it," he said, sounding impatient. Leslie tried to ignore his drumming fingers against the desk. She did not want to be rushed with this Faustian deal with the devil.

"Right. ...Right." She reconsidered the worst-case scenarios. Outside of serious injury, what else could he do to her? He could tease her, deny her… but the latter was his prerogative, and the former was his reason for liaising to begin with. "...Pen, please? There."

He was puzzled by her next condition. "What does this mean?"

"Er. Shit. This is where you make it easy and read my mind."

"Just tell me. I like to see you flustered."

Leslie steeled herself. It was OK. They were adults who could use adult language. "Hoo. OK, so, 'ruined'" she said. "Have you ever been so close to coming that a single finger stroke was enough to do it, and it was the opposite of satisfying? I'm saying that doesn't qualify."

Alastor clicked his tongue. "Can I convince you to remove that clause?"

"No."

He snatched the paper back. "Then I'm adding that Leslie must report her climaxes honestly."

"Hopefully it'll be obvious. Add the same for you," she requested.

"Why do you care about mine?"

"I just do. I think it's hot."

Al's studio audience reacted with whoops and raucous laughter. "You have turned bright red, by the way."

"I know." Wait, how could he tell? Maybe he'd called her bluff, or maybe he could feel the heat from her face, hot enough to fry bacon.

Back to writing he went. "Now this states that it shall be as easy to withdraw as to consent during a meeting, excepting the final date in my case, so as not to make the contract unenforceable. However, I may still try to persuade you, and vice versa."

"That means you could do your tease-and-denial thing right up to the extermination," she said.

"It's a risk you'll have to take."

"Fuck. I knew it."

"You may enjoy some of it," he said in a low voice.

"Hm."

The amendments continued for a while as they polished what had come before, adding new terms as they occurred to Leslie. On some level, the idea of forging such a contract was absurd. There were so many strings attached with this man. But, she supposed, by definition there had to be strings: they couldn't really trust each other, the way a normal couple could. Couple was the wrong word. What even was this?

At last, Leslie nodded. "OK, I think I'm done."

He sighed. "Good, it's been an hour. Give it here and I'll sign." He did. "Now you."

She placed her full name beneath his, then initialed and numbered every page. It was done. This was happening.

"Super," she said.

"Satisfied?"

"I'm sure I will be."

The papers, which had started as a single leaf and been expanded to three, were taken up by Alastor. In a flash of green light, they disappeared from his hands. "You know," he said, getting up, "there are some areas I already know you failed to consider."

She sighed. "Thanks for telling me before I signed the damn… what areas?"

He pulled her up into his arms, giving her shoulder a squeeze. "I can take different forms," he said into her ear. "All manner of shapes. Shapes that could be… an adjustment for you."

"What?"

"Just a jest. But think about it in bed tonight. Farewell for now, little bunny."

o - o - o - o - o

Of course Leslie didn't sleep. She couldn't! If her head was a hotel, the events of this night were an ungodly mix of chemicals combined to make an explosion.

Sometimes she recalled something that made her smile, like his arm around the paperwork as he wrote. Sometimes Leslie felt the rhythm of the heat between herself and Shadow Man. Then there were Alastor's words. "A matter of the flesh," he'd called it. "Be my plaything" was another stunning phrase, looking back. "An adjustment"... Good lord, she would have to make new space in her brain to process that one.

There were also small regrets. She shouldn't have admitted that certain fantasies of hers involved pain. Mostly it was because she expected it of him, to inflict pain, to enjoy doing it, to need it. Was it so wrong that she'd acquiesce to his presumed darker desires in her own head?

Well, she'd have to think about it some more. Get used to the idea that she and Alastor were getting to know each other. She'd have to… prepare.

God, what would Vaggie think of all this? Fraternizing with the Radio demon could be grounds for immediate expulsion from the hotel… or maybe Vaggie would see her as the helpless victim in all of this, if she ever found out. Leslie was reminded of her own performance with the Shadow Man and knew there'd be questions to face in the morning. Something else to prepare for. She was still thinking hard, turning it all over in her head, when the first fingertips of dawn through her mullioned window announced a new day.