On a Friday morning, Leslie folded clothes in the laundry room, and looked up to see Alastor lurking in the doorway. "Jesus," she said, clutching her heart.

"Not quite."

She laughed. "Hi."

"Hello," Alastor said. Then he gave the signal - two winks - and immediately her belly did excited tumble turns. "Is Leslie working tonight?"

"Uh, yes. Back by-" she coughed, "excuse me… I'll be back at 1am, if we close out on time."

He nodded. "So, half an hour after?"

"Sure."

Leslie waited until he'd walked out of sight, then collapsed into the pile of clothes, inhaled the scent of lavender detergent, and giggled like the Joker.

o - o - o - o - o

Leslie claimed the empty second-floor restroom after work, strip-washing and paying fastidious attention to her mouth, brushing more than she did for most dental appointments. Upon entering her room, she changed out of her work clothes into a pretty, yet modest dress. It was new - new to her, anyway, second-hand - but she'd worn it in public yesterday. Nobody could accuse her of trying too hard to look good for him.

The dress concealed the same racy, too-small nightgown she'd been encouraged to wear onstage. Of course, Alastor wouldn't be seeing it tonight, but she wore it anyway. It was her own little secret, and it made her feel bolder, more in control of her faculties. If only it didn't dig into her shoulders.

Play it cool, she told herself. This isn't your first rodeo. Take it easy. But it was never going to be that simple, was it? She's been so distracted at Hades, turning over possible scenarios, and during the day it was hard to be optimistic. Oh yes, alone at night with her thoughts, she could make Alastor do whatever she wanted, but this was real life now. The tables were about to turn. He was actual, corporeal, and even several decades of keeping people away - being out-of-practice - could not make him less intimidating... or intriguing. She was sure he'd have some trickery up his sleeve, sufficient to make her completely helpless.

She'd never be ready for this, not really.

Leslie rapped on the wood of her door in the agreed rhythm (shave-and-a-hair-cut), and from the other side, heard him knocking on his desk (two-bits). Opening the door, she emerged not into the hallway, but into his office. It was curious to think their rooms were linked up, having a rendezvous of their own. It must have been powerful magic: perhaps the same stuff he used to teleport, or to conjure things into view from miles away. Alastor was sitting at the desk as she entered, his head down, going over some paperwork by lamplight. As Leslie approached, hands fidgeting, he continued to focus on the papers.

"Ahem."

"One moment, darling. You're a little early."

Leslie glanced at the grandfather clock. It was true; she was. So much for playing it cool.

"Go sit on the couch there. Make yourself comfortable."

Ah well, Leslie thought, 'sofa, so good'.

There were two couches in Alastor's office. The nearer one of them faced the door, and was flanked by side tables, one of which had a record player on it. Not the truly old fashioned kind, with a horn loudspeaker, but it was some shade of vintage tech. As directed, she took a seat and stared ahead. Long, deep breaths, as quietly as she could. Calm. Easy. Relaxed. Then came the sound of Alastor putting his pen down, and her pulse jumped anyway.

He strolled towards her, very much at his own pace. Leslie knew he was drawing it out on purpose. As he sat, the height difference between them was a little better, the top of her head being level with his chin.

"Now then," he said, then paused, looking her up and down. The sudden attention was stressful; she let out the breath she'd been holding through pursed lips. He laughed. "Now then," he repeated, "how are we feeling?"

"Nervous."

"Evidently." He stretched out his arm with a flourish, and a glass of liquor appeared in that hand. "Maybe this will help."

"Don't you want me nervous?"

"I do… but you might run away if you don't settle those nerves a little. Drink!"

"You first," she said, remembering his advice not to trust anyone.

Alastor gave her a quick what-do-you-take-me-for? glance, but obliged, taking a stiff gulp from the glass before offering it to her. She turned it around in her hands, drinking from the spot that held his lip print. In her mind, it was a precursor to the kiss she knew was coming - again, part of this silly superstition. If Alastor noticed, he didn't remark on it.

"It's brandy?" she asked.

"Cognac, yes."

"What's the difference?"

"Cognac is a higher quality, and comes from a specific area of France. But I wouldn't expect most people to tell them apart."

Leslie put the glass down. Already, she felt a warming sensation in her throat, and she tasted the sweetness and spice. It was (she hated to admit) quite the turn-on to know how Alastor's mouth would taste. The distance between them was maybe ten inches. Any moment, they would close the gap. It would finally happen… the longed-for moment.

Alastor swiveled in place and began fussing with the record player. While he was occupied, Leslie straightened out her dress, making sure the lingerie was concealed. Then, he turned back, quickly, with purpose. Seven inches between them.

He raised his hand, placing two fingers against her throat. Music played, accentuated by the scratchiness of vinyl; it was some 1930s pop standard by Al Bowlly (she couldn't remember which).

"On reflection," he said slowly, "this arrangement of ours is quite uniquely odd, isn't it?"

Leslie closed her eyes and told her heart to stop thudding so damn loudly. Again, he laughed. He shuffled closer. Taking her head in both hands now, he tilted back, and her throat was exposed, and his mouth lightly grazed on it.

Leslie froze. This was not The Kiss, not yet. Damn Alastor, of course he would do this, and with such maddening restraint - or so she thought, until he let out a warm, deliberate breath - haaa - and found the pulse in her neck, his lips against it. He knew what he was doing.

"God fucking damn it," she said.

"Shhh."

Leslie was dizzy already, from a combination of nerves, alcohol, and a sudden tingling in her thighs. This whole situation felt dangerous, even stupid on her part, but God, was it sexy. This was so much better than snuggling with Pillow Alastor.

His hands moved from the side of her face to the nape of her neck, then her ears. He gripped one of them and tugged.

"Hmmmph," she said, tensing. She placed her hands carefully on his padded shoulders, which he allowed.

"You want me to kiss you?" Alastor smiled.

"Yes please."

Her manners were amusing to him. "Ha ha… then say it, my dear."

"Your ego is ridiculous."

He let go of her head. When she snuck a look at him, he was simply sitting there; not annoyed, but not making further moves to kiss her, either. She sighed.

"Obviously, I want it."

Leslie was barely done deciding whether or not to keep her eyes open in case the bastard tried something, when Alastor came close, bringing his mouth to hers. It was a safe little peck; nothing too fancy, but he lingered there afterwards, dragging his lips against hers, from side to side.

Leslie held her breath. How long had it been, since she'd been kissed? Only four months, and yet it felt so alien now. Her lips parted a little, pressing against his. Maybe it was just him, maybe all demons, but the heat, the literal heat was really something.

Al Bowlly crooned sweetly in the background.

Her hands gripped Alastor's shoulders as they found a rhythm, the way new kissers did. He was more reticent than she wanted: close-mouthed, tracing her jaw with his thumb. Perhaps he was teasing as always. She didn't feel like asking right now.

As he broke away, she chased him a little, a few more pecks. He tilted his head to look at her. Leslie broke into self-conscious but happy giggles. Then she winced.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. The thing is biting my shoulder."

"What thing?"

"My, er, underclothes." Leslie said it with a stuffy English accent that broke her out in a grin. "Sorry."

"You say you're sorry for everything."

"Hm." The record ended, and Alastor attended to it. She supposed there was some danger of damage from the skipping needle if he didn't. Vinyl was so silly to her. Why would you want a music-playing device that required fiddling with after every song?

"I don't know about that kiss," she mused.

That got his notice; Alastor twisted his neck to her, eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"

"Nothing, nothing. I was trying to be cute." She let the tiny flutter of fear creep into her voice, hoping he would appreciate that, at least. "Come kiss me again, is what I was trying to say."

"Leslie is becoming bossy all of a sudden."

She was hit with a pang of annoyance. "Alright, listen-"

He silenced her by leaning in again. She sighed. Her hands wrapped around his tiny waist, pulling him in as he kissed with slightly more intensity this time. His mouth stayed closed, though his shoulders did a lot of the work. Was this something he'd brought with him from the 1930s? Leslie grew impatient, and she tested the waters, drawing her tongue between his lips. Let me in. Please let me in. Kiss me like you mean it.

He leaned against her, pushing her backwards against the arm of the couch. As his nails raked the small of her back, they caught at the lace underneath her dress. Maybe he knew now what she was wearing.

She pulled his hair, and finally it seemed to click with him: he picked up on the change in momentum. He opened himself to her. Yes! God, his mouth was temperate, like he'd been gargling coffee. She could still taste the bittersweet alcohol on his tongue, swirling softly with the promise of more. Then, she darted back, inviting him to explore her mouth. Instead, he caught her lower lip between his teeth and bit.

Hard.

"Ow!"

Leslie tried to move back, but there was barely enough room; her forehead bashed against his, and he withdrew.

"Too far?"

"Too…? Yes, Al, I'm fucking bleeding!" She patted her fingertips against her sore mouth, and they came away red. Alastor's eyes flashed when he saw this, taking hold of her fingers and placing them against his tongue.

Leslie stared. "Did you mean to do that?" she asked.

"What do you think?"

"You've got to warn me before you do it, Alastor. Christ- AH!"

Opening her mouth for the I in Christ had been a bad idea. Alastor came in for a vampire's kiss, applying suction to the affected area, as Leslie squinted at him in quasi-horror. This was the most enthusiastic he'd been so far, and she liked enthusiasm, but bloodsucking during their first kiss was too extreme for comfort.

"I'd like to go," she said. "Fix my lip, please."

One final suck, but he did as she asked, smearing the damage away, then licking clean the thumb he had used.

"You're weird," she said, and stormed out of the room.