TW for violence, language, and god complexes

Alastor slunk out of the office, trying to avoid being noticed. His coat buttoned, hat pulled down, scarf tugged up to his nose. Everyone was dancing and no one seemed to pay him mind, too drunk and chasing their own skirts. Even the secretary had abandoned her post and was stumbling out a fox trot with one of the employees. He kept to the walls, moving silently and carefully. He had his hand on the doorknob when-

"Hey boss!"

Shit.

Alastor turned and tugged down the scarf, smiling from under his hat at the new intern. A young boy whose name he could never seem to remember with wide eyes and an eager smile.

"Leaving so early?"

Alastor took care to slump against the wall, trying to look more intoxicated than he was, realizing in the process that it wasn't that difficult. He had definitely abused the bottle tonight. He gave the boy a crooked smile and heavy lidded gaze. "You should be a comedian, my boy," he slurred, dramatically. "Just popping across the street for another bottle."

The boy's eyes lit up at the opportunity to be of service. "We have more in the supply cabinet-"

"We have cheap bathtub alcohol in the supply cabinet," Alastor corrected with a conspiratorial wink. "I'll be needing something a little more top shelf. Might as well spoil ourselves for Nola?"

The boy's eyes sparkled. "Yes sir, Mr. Alastor. I can go out for you if-"

Alastor lazily held up a hand and the boy clamped his mouth shut. He could have laughed at the interns' obedience. A puppy.

"My treat to you all," Alastor said, with a dramatic bow.

The boy laughed, a little too loud.

"I'll be back in a few."

The boy nodded. Alastor tipped his hat and slipped out the door

Alastor shivered in the cold as he eyed the streets. A few people out but not too many. More than he would like. He hissed into his scarf and rubbed his arms. It didn't get that cold here but it meant the nights it did, nobody had the clothes to dress for it. A slight February chill was enough to make a man's bones cold.

He crossed to the apothecary where he knew the old woman worked a side hustle. Bathtub gin, but no one would really know the difference. It all tasted the same once you'd had enough and his staff definitely were at that point by now. He took care to slur his words, work his charm as he said the secret phrasing to purchase it. She needed to remember he was there.

Back out to the street he scanned for anyone else, his eyes finally falling on a young sailor, leaned precariously against a wall and holding his head, a bottle wrapped in a paper bag discarded next to him.

Alastor crossed to the boy and held out a hand, which the sailor took obediently, blinking and swaying. The radio host cocked his head to the side as he regarded him. They were almost the same height, save the boy being a couple inches shorter. And when Alastor lifted the boy's chin with a finger he saw glazed brown eyes looking back. The same color as his.

Perfect.

"Cold?" Alastor drawled, dropping his transatlantic.

The boy nodded and swayed, almost falling over if the taller man hadn't grabbed his shoulders.

"I've got a warm place to sleep for you," he coaxed, grabbing the boy's chin and forcing him to look into his eyes. "But I'll need a few promises."

The boy weakly tried to shake his hand away, sneering. "Not *hiccup* not that drunk-"

Alastor chuckled darkly at the insinuation. "No, no, nothing like that. Trying to sneak out with a lady and can't have my girl upstairs knowing."

Now the drunken lad relaxed, attempting to slap Alastor on the arm approvingly and missing entirely, falling forward against him. Alastor winced and pushed him back. He felt his teeth clench in disgust.

"Just wear my coat up, Floor 2 Office A. Go straight to the recording studio in the back. Don't talk to anyone."

The boy swayed.

"Repeat that back to me."

"Floor 2 *hiccup* Office A. Recording shhhhtudio. No *hiccup* talkies." He smiled triumphantly.

Alastor frowned. He felt a pit in his stomach, knew this was risky, but he needed to be seen coming back. He dressed the boy in his coat, scarf, and hat, shivering as he adjusted everything so only the boy's eyes could be seen. He took the boy's own cap and put it on his head, pulling it low over his brow. Giving him a once over, he sighed noticing the shoes.

"What size shoe do you wear?"

"-leven,"

"Close enough."

He traded shoes, fuming as he had to tie them onto the sailor who could barely stay standing on one foot long enough to slip them on. He handed the boy the bottles and sent him stumbling on his way. If he still believed in a God he would have said a prayer. As the man in his clothes disappeared he sighed.

Now to find Nifty.

Alastor kept his head ducked, looking up through the bill of the cap as he made his way down Bourbon street. In slacks and button up, worn shoes, he could pass for a sailor as long as no one looked too close and the hat kept his face in shadow. Still, he tried to be cautious, stumbling a bit here and there, keeping to the shadows.

A parade marched the street with joyous and out of tune brass. Around him drunken men and women in various states of dress were raccuas and unruly. Women earned beads and men gladly gave them. One alley passed found a couple engaging in something that was supposed to pass for intimacy, another a man relieving himself.

Alastor covered his nose as he went, disgusted by the smell of piss, sweat, and vomit. Surely this wasn't where he would find her. Surely.

As his buzz died, his head was pounding, and the atmosphere made him feel nauseous. He found an alcove to lean in and closed his eyes, muttering under his breath, fighting to concentrate. He felt his surroundings quiet and a voice cut through in his mind. This magic was new and unrefined, hazy, but he could sense her. He muttered faster, squeezing his eyes shut struggling to feel more clarity. The binding with Nifty and Husk seemed to keep them attached to him, but the books had said he should be able to see them. Locate them. It wasn't working.

His eyes popped open and the pervading noise returned. He sighed and glanced around, his eyes falling on a particularly rough looking establishment across the street. The Broken Nail. Many a sordid affair had been exposed by one of his colleagues or the local higher ups being seen coming and going from it. The kind of dark and unbecoming place a man "passing through town" would know to take a secret lady.

He made his way across the street, ducking around a trombone and ignoring a few drunken shouts. His head was pounding from strain and an oncoming hangover and he was angry. Angry at Nifty for being reckless and angry at the man who was most likely trying to take advantage. If magic wasn't in his favor, luck would be. It seemed his task wouldn't be as difficult as he had thought.

He brushed past the patrons of the dive bar and his eyes darted from underneath his cap until they fell on Nifty. She was giggling, uncomfortable, wringing her hands and trying to slide away from a man in a booth who grabbed tightly to her thigh. Alastor made his way to them and took a moment to make eye contact with her before grabbing the man's shoulder and yanking him out of the booth onto the floor.

Nifty had looked uncomfortable. Now she looked terrified.

Alastor pulled the man to his feet by his hair.

"Now you ain't messin' with my girl, are ya?" He drawled, smiling menacingly into the man's face.

The man's face flickered between drunkenness, confusion, and anger as he shoved Alastor in the chest, creating distance.

"The fuck are you," he slurred, his eyes glancing up and down, sizing up his opponent, "...Beanpole"

Alastor was lanky but tall. He could see the man glance back at Nifty, trying to decide if she was worth the fight. Seeming to make up his mind, the man shoved Alastor again and started making his way to the door, muttering expletives under his breath. Alastor shot Nifty a smile that turned her blood cold before following him, untucking his shirt in the back to retrieve the knife he had tucked in his belt. He tailed the man through the streets, shoulders bumping into those around him but no one seemed to notice.

He caught up quickly and grabbed the man's shoulder again, spinning him around. He reared back, readying a punch, when Alastor plunged the knife into his stomach. The man seemed to freeze. Eyes wide. His mouth moved as though he were trying to speak when he coughed, splattering blood onto Alastor's face. He collapsed against Alastor, who supported his weight as he began setting about carving a letter r into his cheek. The man made no noise, just sputtered and choked. The intoxicated crowd around them moved like a school of fish. Finishing his crude engraving, his slid out from under the man and let him slump to the ground, walking on as if nothing had transpired.

By the time he heard someone scream he was already a block away, lost in the crowd that was now pushing against his back. He kept his head ducked low and quickened his pace as people began to realize what had happened. When other's started running, he ran as well, hearing the sound of sirens behind him. All cold had left his body. He was panting, full of adrenaline. He was almost to his house when finally stopped, his body tingling. He collapsed on the stoop, wiping his face with the hat. He felt something euphoric fill him. He had done it. He had done it in the middle of a crowded street and gotten away. He had an alibi.

He was a God.