Alastor Fils-Aimé lived for the thrill.

Oh, the sweet buzz of the trumpet coupled with a toe-tapping beat - it could set anyone's heart on fire! An entertainer by nature, Alastor relished each twist of the dial, every record carefully chosen by his own hands, broadcasted for all of New Orleans to hear.

The station itself was no dive - their listeners doubled by the week, even reaching the Garden District - and for the first time, those fat cats had seen his worth.

Took them long enough.

Now, Alastor would be seen for who he truly was; a connoisseur amongst spiffy men in poorly fitted suits, men who were content to settle for the shallow affection of flour-flushers. But not him.

The ruby light above his head faded with a click, and as Alastor stretched his arms above his head, satisfied, he heard faint laughter coming from the hall, the sound barely audible through the door.

While nothing could compare to the lifeblood of New Orleans - swing and jazz, the blues and ragtime - there was no other sound like Evelyn Peter's laugh.

Much like the whine of the radio, caught between channels, it often fell somewhere between melodic and pitchy, but Alastor didn't mind. He never did with her, even when she laughed for the wrong reasons. The wrong person.

Alastor straightened as the door opened, harsh luminescence spilling in around her figure.

"Well, look who it is," Evelyn was smiling already, playfully so. With her hip, she flipped the main lights on, reverting the dimness to an inescapable brilliance, "Recording in the dark again, Al?"

"Speak for yourself, cher," His grin widened, winking boldly in her direction, "I do my best work in the dark!"

He was immediately rewarded by another laugh, this one for him, and him alone. Although he typically loathed nicknames of any kind, anything that abbreviated his proper name, Alastor found it hard to stay annoyed. With her, it was a sign of fondness, of affection.

In her hands were two mugs with the station's logo, chipped by time and wear. Steam rose from both, and with it, the smell of freshly brewed joe. With a nod, he asked, "Is that for me, or have you come just to taunt me with it?" His eyebrows rose, leaning back to splay a hand dramatically across his chest, "And here I thought we had something special, sweetheart!"

The dimples in Evelyn's cheeks deepened with the teasing roll of her eyes. Crossing the room - the recording studio wasn't particularly spacious, but impeccably organized - her heels clicked against the linoleum, recently shined and visibly newer than the rest of her outfit put together. There was a small rip along her pantyhose, neatly sewed together below the knee and hidden by the sway of her skirt, which was carefully ironed to superficial perfection. A strand of blonde hair stuck to her lipstick, a jarring shade of pink ill-suited for her complexion.

Evelyn wasn't one to blow dough on anything frivolous - Sophie Newcomb's tuition wasn't cheap - but she still wanted to impress, and her handiwork showed. Appreciated it may be, the effort wasn't neccessary; for someone like Evelyn, all she needed was that smile.

Instead of handing him the mug, she placed it delicately on the small mat where he put all his beverages. Alastor's smile widened.

She knew him well, more than she realized.

"It's not hot enough to burn your lips off, unfortunately." Evelyn settled gracefully into the wooden chair propped against the wall, a spare. She had yet to realize that he kept it there solely for her. Her own mug in hand, she shrugged, grinning, "But there's nothing that'll keep you from talking, Al." The jibe was light-hearted, a clear attempt at teasing.

Then her smile wavered, hanging in delicate suspension. Her eyes fell to the table, "I nearly forgot about it myself, sitting on that counter for so long."

Alastor wasn't a sap, and immediately noticed the unspoken disappointment, the slight droop of her shoulders as she swept the hair from her cheeks. Anger threatened to ruin his demeanor, but Alastor's smile held firm.

This was because of James.

That boozehound was an uninspired sack of bones, bloated by a misguided notion of his own self-worth…not to mention the fact that he was incredibly, horribly boring. Predictable. As such, the dewdropper was perfectly fine with dragging Evelyn along, treating her as just another chippy.

She was smarter than that, Alastor knew she was...and yet Evelyn had walked down the middle aisle with James, seemingly confident in the security of matrimony.

Ha!

Refusing to get sore in front of her, however, Alastor plastered another grin on his lips, "Thank you for thinking of me, darling. It's good to know I won't be forgotten so easily."

He picked up the cup of joe - cooler than he usually preferred - and instead focused on the way the heat leaked through the ceramic. She'd still thought of him, even if only as an afterthought.

No fault of her own, of course; she couldn't help but be blinded, blinded by the merest wisp of opportunity and Jame's pale, milky eyes. After all, Evelyn's ambition was something he admired about her, one of the qualities that made her so amusing to begin with.

Evelyn seemed to relax, easing into the chair with her ankles primly crossed. Elegance came naturally to her, dressed in rags or not. She held her own cup in both hands, beaming at his easy acceptance and gratitude. The anger in his veins abated slightly.

"Anything for my favorite radio host." She replied warmly.

He wondered if she actually believed it; sweet Evelyn was a terrible liar, but was delusional enough for any truth coming from her lips to be subjective. Her judgement in men was proof enough.

Alastor hummed in response and took a sip of the coffee, cherishing the bitterness. If nothing else, she made a damn good cup of joe, strong enough to nearly kill a man. Just the way he liked it.

Evelyn studied the desk before him, the neat arrangement of papers and machines, the large microphone sitting exactly three inches to his right.

"So, are you excited yet?" Her eyes returned to him, shining and eager, "I can't believe you'll officially have your own segment, Al!" She leaned forwards, her enthusiasm contagious, "It'll be the bee's knees, I just know it."

Pride swelled in his breast, and Alastor straightened, adjusting his glasses. He was finally receiving the recognition his hard work deserved, his undying dedication to the art of entertainment.

Of course, he was still massively underappreciated - a man of his talents in a place like this always would be - but it was a start. From here, the world would be in his grasp, and once he had it, Alastor would never let go.

"I couldn't have done it without you, cher."

He was pleased to see her smile grow, her shoulders straightening as she unfolded from her own doubts. There was a rosy dusting on her cheeks as she took another sip, hiding the spots of color.

See?

James couldn't elicit such a reaction; Evelyn deserved a real gentleman, someone who would always say the right thing, someone who could make her blush without resorting to crude innuendos.

One day, she would understand how right he was for her, as she was for him.

"Horsefeathers," Evelyn shook her head, curls bouncing pleasantly around her chin. Her smile faded, and she glanced towards the door again. "You got that spot because you deserve it, Al." The compliment's effectiveness was ruined by the distracted frown on her lips, the lines creasing her forehead.

Setting the mug down, Alastor rose from his seat, attracting her attention once more. With a grin, he slipped his hand under hers, pulling her gently to her feet. With his other hand, he plucked the half-empty mug from her, placing it beside his.

Returning to the grooved accent - the one Evelyn called his "radio voice" - Alastor loudly declared, "And now, it is my pleasure to introduce Miss Evelyn Peters!"

"Al," A reluctant smile was already escaping, her tone betraying the underlying amusement. In the background, the mellow hum of Arthur Hazel's cornet crooned alongside a rich baritone. Keeping in time to the rhythm, Alastor spun Evelyn, who let out a surprised laugh.

"Please give her a warm welcome, ladies and gentlemen!"

As much as he despised James, he hated Evelyn's disappointment more; the way her features crumpled made his chest ache something awful, tight and uncomfortable like he was out of breath.

"Alastor," Evelyn repeated, sounding more like music than jazz itself.

"Yes, my dear?" He led them in a lackadaisical circle, swaying back and forth to the beat. She followed suit without second thought, glancing back at the door as they moved. When their eyes met, her lips pursed, trying - and failing - giving him a stern look.

Streaks of annoyance dampened his amusement, and he rolled his eyes as he led her into another twirl, allowing her hand to slip from his.

"It's a lovely handcuff, darling." Was all he said, trusting Evelyn to hear what was left unspoken.

I know.

You're married.

To imagine someone like her with someone like James, well, it was enough for any outsider to wonder if she was just a skirt...but Alastor understood the truth, and so would Evelyn, eventually.

Didn't she know they were meant for something greater?

"Now, are you going to tell me what's eating you, doll?" Alastor scooped up their mugs, handing one to her with a pointed smile, "Or did you want to just bump gums for a while?" Taking a sip - the coffee had gone bad, cold and stale - he added, "Though I have to warn you, darling. I'm running out of daylight."

He wasn't quite so enthused anymore, and the next tune would be coming up. Alastor suddenly itched for the solitude of the booth, a place completely his own.

Evelyn smoothed down her skirt, glancing at the door again before returning her attention to him. She seemed to hesitate for only a moment, dropping her gaze to the cold coffee in hand.

"James has been...distant." The paint on her fingernails were chipped at the edges, fingertips tracing the lipstick-stained rim of the mug, "I don't know if he plans to fire me or if he's already bored..." With me. She didn't need to finish the sentence for him to understand.

The smile on his lips physically hurt this time, fury burning through his veins like the frayed end of a live wire.

Alastor wanted to reach for her again, to remind her that she didn't need James, or anyone else, that she - they - were better than the narrow-minded, uptown folk of New Orleans who wanted nothing more than to get smoked. They would never appreciate either of them, not in this hick town.

"He won't fire you, Evelyn." Alastor leaned forwards to carefully brush the hair from her face, soft blonde curls that outlined her face like a halo, "The station would fall apart without you." His fingers curled around her shoulder for the barest second before he let go, moving away.

It wasn't quite what Evelyn wanted to hear, however.

Her responding smile was polite at best, and disbelieving at worst. The joe settled in his stomach like ice, coating his tongue with the bitter aftertaste.

"Thank you, Al. You always know just what to say."

She was lying now, lying to make him feel better. It was his job to comfort her, not the other way around. He didn't need consolation. Evelyn's heels clicked, skirt swishing as she walked to the door, and she paused in the frame, half-empty mug in hand.

"Good luck tonight, Al. You'll knock their socks off." A more genuine smile returned, though there was a strange edge to it that too closely resembled pity, "You always make me laugh."

"Anything for the lady of the house." Still, he bowed, tipping his imaginary hat and grinning from ear to ear. This earned him a final, signature Evelyn Peter's smile. The sight of it coursed through his veins like electricity, the high of someone else's joy derived from him, and him alone.

Alastor would show her exactly what she deserved, and maybe James, too...

But first, he had a show to run.


A/N: Thank you, dolls and demons! Stay tuned...

1920's slang, decoded (in order of appearance):

Dish - a beautiful woman;
Dive - a run-down, cheap place;
Fat cat(s) - a wealthy and privileged person (people);
Flour-flusher(s) - a gold-digger, someone who feigns affection for money;
Cher - term of endearment used when greeting someone;
Joe - coffee;
Dough - money;
Sophie Newcomb (College) - an arts college "for the women"; a subset of Tulane University historically for woman in the early-to-mid 1900s;
Boozehound - a drunk;
Dewdropper - a lazy person, someone who does nothing all day;
To get sore - to get mad;
Chippy - a woman of easy virtue;
The bee's knees - an extraordinary person/thing/idea;
Middle aisle - to get married;
Horsefeathers - another term for "nonsense";
Handcuff - a wedding and/or engagement ring;
Skirt - a woman;
Bump gums - to talk about nothing of value/in particular;
Uptown - wealthy