buggiewritesthings

New Orleans. 1910.

You were 'lucky' enough to be fair skinned, blending in with the white children in your community.

But even as a young child you noticed how much it crushed your mother to watch you have to reject a side of yours, a culture you were so comfortable in. A culture your father had fallen in love with enough to defy the laws suffocating the country.

Legally, your father had married his childhood friend, Brigitte. A beautiful woman who did look similar to you. But in a secret ceremony only witnessed by Brigitte herself, her secret lover Dianna and your father's best man Pierre, he had married your mother. A woman of colour.

Brigitte and your father had a perfect lavender marriage that assured both their families would shut up while living their true selves comfortably.

This meant you were able to indulge in the privileges of white people, while still having your mother around, presenting to the outside world as your maid.

It was confusing for a child to call their mother their nanny when your tiny body brimmed with pride for the beautiful, strong woman who birthed you. The woman who told you stories of foreign lands where your family waited to meet you.

You first saw him in passing at the edge of the white only playground, a frown on his face.

Your eyes had lit up with interest immediately. He had the same bronze skin as your mother and a note of familiarity washed over you.

When you stepped forward to approach him a group of boys started throwing rocks at him, laughing at the poor boy.

You frowned.

The defeated look in those chocolate eyes made your heart ache. But there was a defiant, almost angry glint that made you puff out your cheeks.

You nodded at the retreating form as if to say 'I understand you'.

Even if he didn't see it.

The next time you saw him was at church. Just like you he was clinging to his mother's skirt, though you could tell by his eyes that he was not actually participating. The prayers left his lips like everybody else's but there was no soul behind it. No sincerity. Just like that empty smile he had.

You noticed his eyes on you that day because you clung to your mother's dress while Brigitte was speaking with Dianna.

Your mother smiled warmly at you and decided to socialize with the other women. She seemed to get along fine with his mother and it finally gave you the opportunity to speak to him.

"Hey! My name is YN"

You held out your tiny hand

"Pleasure to be meeting you! Quite a pleasure!"

The boy stared at you before he took your hand.

"Alastor."

His tone was a bit too performative. A bit too bright, just like the smile he put on.

But that didn't deter you. You shook his hand firmly, just as your father taught you.

You blabbered on and on to Alastor, your fascination with him taking over.

Why did his eyes look so dead sometimes? Why did he flinch when he stopped smiling? Why was he so restrained?

You both knew, even as innocent kids, that there was trouble if you wanted to play outside together. It always made you pout and stomp your foot in protest when your father gave you an apologetic look.

The compromise was that Mrs. Heartfelt and Alastor were allowed to come over for tea after church.

You always dragged Alastor off to your room to play, even when he was as enthusiastic about your dolls as a brick wall.

He would cross his arms and raise a brow at you while you grinned at him brightly.

He seemed more annoyed with you than anything, though he was raised well by his mother. He would indulge you, the younger one, the girl.

You remembered the first day you made him laugh. A genuine laugh had bubbled up in him when you had told him a silly joke your dad had made that you found just delightful!

That sound had immediately branded your soul. Your heart.

You just stared at him, flushing a soft red while he finally smiled at you properly.

From then something shifted. He was more engaging and let you see glimpses into his mind.

Alastor had morbid interests. He found taxidermy fascinating. Collected dead animals and cleaned them off their flesh. He showed you the different bones he had accumulated so far.

You could tell he expected you to recoil, perhaps prove him right that you didn't actually want to be his friend. That you would run like everyone else.

But you were so intrigued. You had beamed at him, curiosity sparking through you.

"What bone is this?"

"Do humans look like this too?"

"How did preservation work?"

Your eyes shone with such innocent curiosity that for a second Alastor paused.

Alastor's heart made weird jumps that his young mind couldn't comprehend.

"You're... Not scared?"

"Why? This is amazing!"

God she was stupid.

Alastor raised his eyebrow again. He had withheld the most important information- The animals died by his hand for the most part. He remembered how nice it felt when the warm blood ran down his hands and arms in crimson rivers.

How he adored that colour.

Sometimes he had pictured what it would look like if she was covered in crimson. When that blabbering mouth of her fell silent, her eyes losing their light.

Alastor looked at her, as she inspected the bones carefully, afraid to break his possessions.

Hm.

But she was too sweet. Annoying, but sweet. Weak.

He was hesitant. He never was with this.

But Alastor decided the hesitance was a sign to not harm her. If there was a part of him that was keen on keeping her alive, he would indulge it to see where it would take him.

The years shaped their friendships.

She, growing into a stunning young woman, him growing into a handsome young man.

Even with the world against them they both spent time together constantly. She trusted him with everything, he trusted her with the non incriminating things in his life.

After all, he couldn't risk her finding out and running that mouth to authorities.

He was 18 and she was 16 when he started working his way up, taking odd jobs to save up. He didn't want to stay in the dirt. Being in the shadows simply because of the colour of his skin.

YN was supportive, she even got her connections to hire him. He hated it as much as he appreciated it.

Some things he couldn't reach even with talent and work.

He remembers the first auditions he went to. The rejections just made him more determined to succeed. To make it.

She kept cheering him on quietly. Even if he hated to admit it she had become his pillar. The one person he could always depend on.

It was obvious she loved him.

She rejected any man who showed interest in her, clinging onto the one bone bracelet Alastor had given her when he officially recognised her as his 'friend'.

Alastor noticed. Of course he did. He knew her better than her parents did. He knew exactly what reaction he would get with which action.

How her nose twitched and her eyes crinkled when he did something she deemed 'cute'-he insisted he never did such things-, how she had kissed one man and got so disgusted by it she came to him crying.

Alastor smiled at the memory while he organised his notes, looking at the photograph of hers he kept on his desk. She had insisted he should have a photo of hers with him at all times for 'good luck'.

He chuckled softly, shaking his head, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest.

It was an odd feeling he had started to get recently. It was so warm, so soothing.

And it only ever presented itself when she was on his mind.

When Alastor and you hit your 20s he finally got that hard earned job as a radio host.

When he told you you cried, jumping into his arms while squealing in delight.

"You did it!", you had cupped his cheeks and smiled so sweetly at him. "I'm so proud of you, Alastor!"

The new radio host forgot how to breathe for a second, wide brown eyes staring at her. She was the only person who could touch him so freely aside from his mother. He never knew why her clinginess annoyed him less than others' despite her being the loudest person in the room when she got comfortable.

He swallowed, eyes searching hers.

Those eyes he had fantasized about the life draining from them. Those eyes who he had stared into almost every day for the past decade.

Ba-dump.

Ba-dump ba-dump.

He felt hot. Squirmish.

She was talking, babbling on about how happy she was for him. How she had always known he was meant for something so grand.

Her hands were still on his face. You were pressed against him.

So.

Close.

Ba-dump Ba-dump.

You were so devoted to him. So proud. So... in love.

Ba-dump Ba-dump Ba-dump

Perhaps that pure, innocent, loving devotion deserved acknowledgement...

Rewarding.

Alastor's eyes focused your lips.

And he leaned in, swallowing whatever nonsense was coming out of your mouth.

AN:

*I wrote this as someone who is half white half filipino, I gathered from some research and my remaining history knowledge that non black poc had a few privileges still but I am leaving it ambiguous so more people can immerse themselves! - I plan on making this a mini series where the differences between Reader and Alastor get clearer and also Reader's perspective (I am writing her with my personal experiences in mind as a white passing poc since I may not experience the same discrimination but I see it in those I care about)

The more I read about Jim Crow etc I felt my blood pressure rise TwT

“Oh yeah. We’re on safe grounds at seven. You never want to be stationed at six.” “Why’s that?” You arch an eyebrow, finally meeting his gaze. "Six is where Late Night with Vincent Whittman was filmed." You were new to Delaware, a transplant from Georgia. You masqueraded your accent, striving to blend in with these Northerners. However, you could only do so in the large ways that counted. But every state has its own culture, and ‘culturally,’ there were things you could not smile and pretend to know about, such as this name - Vincent Whittman. For better or worse, you are a woman who has always been curious. So you tilt your head, click your tongue. "Vincent Whittman...? Was he a scary Boss - something like that?" "A scary Boss?” He croons. “I’m guessing your ol' granny n' grandpappy never caught him on TV?" The ghost of annoyance dances in your eyes. You wonder why the hell he would choose those titles for your grandparents, only to bitterly suspect maybe you didn't hide your accent as well as you thought. Either way, you knew better than to say TVs were a luxury in their time. You couldn’t seem Southern and impoverished. “They had too much going on to sit and watch TV." You shift the subject, "So, Vincent Whittman. What did he do so bad, huh?" The elevator opens, floor three. The man who stood behind you slides by with a low, 'Thank God.’ You replay that murmur, that little 'Thank God.' This Vincent has grown men twice your size scared, it's intriguing. "So," the elevator doors clamp shut as Samuel begins, "Vincent Whittman was a serial killer. Worked here in the 50s." "He stalked all the pretty receptionists who left work at night, right?" Samuel lifts his eyebrows, amused. "Oh, no, he killed his way to the top." “That’s dramatic,” you chuckle. “It’s true.” “No way,” you reply, a crease developing over your nose as your lips mockingly curl up in disbelief. “Oh yeah. Weather first. Then anchor. Then late night. That’s when people started disappearing…camera men. Interns.”

“Annnnd…” you lift an eyebrow, “nobody noticed?”

“I mean, it was television, people always left. Some say he staged accidents. Loose wires. Locked doors. Others say he didn’t bother hiding it once he got famous enough.” “So, you’re saying this building is haunted?” “No, not the building. Floor six.” In childhood teachings it was reinforced that there were only two definite things in this world: God and Satan. Everything else was imagination. So, you hum lightly, “I don’t believe in that kind of thing,” The words barely settle before you feel Samuel's presence closer than before. Your eyes flick sideways. You don’t remember him moving. Before you could speak, you notice the number flash above the elevator - six. It doesn’t frighten you, how could it when it meant in a second you would be free from Samuel’s company? The elevator hums, as it should. But the number, six, it lingers. A second passes, then another. Your fingers twitch, ready to caress the small silver dove hanging above your chest. You don’t need to do that, you tell yourself. Sometimes old elevators are just - funky. The light clicks, the glorious number 7 hanging above you and Samuel. The metallic doors triumphantly slide open, as if welcoming you to the gates of heaven. “See that?” Samuel grins, “that was Vincent Whittman.” You playfully scoff, “oh please.”

---

You love winter, but you hate the darkness of the evening. Streetlights blinked on like it was already eleven.

The call of the street didn’t stop you from lingering in the newsroom. Leaving early felt like a sin, especially on days where you were at risk of coming in three minutes late. You told yourself newsrooms remember missteps and errors just as they remembered devotion. Things you do will matter in the long run. Come ten pm, you slung your purse over your shoulder, ensured you had your car keys pocketed. Privately, your fingers curl into the metallic loop as though it’s a weapon. You walk to the elevator when a faint glow from one of the side offices caught your eye. The door was ajar, yet the room withheld any trace of anyone working overtime. You could have kept moving - generally, you would have kept moving, but something pulled you to step that way. Open the door more. You were unsure why, but a thought hung over you: “The TV should go off.” You kept repeating that as if it were the most important thing in the world. You reached for the knob, the screen didn’t die. A frown stretches over your lips. You try again, once more there was nothing. Lips fold inward, hand stalling from giving it a third try. The TV should go off, but - it wasn’t worth it. Standing in an office that wasn’t yours could get you in trouble. Hand clutching your purse strap, you turn away. Stepping back into the hall as the television’s glow lingered, unbothered.

--- You were rattled, he could see that clearly through the screen. But, you kept up a tough front. Better than that, you let him be. Every now and then, Vox pulled this little stunt. The reactions never failed to amuse him, how the fresh blood at SBC would slap the side of the set like the television owed them obedience. Others leaned in close, staring at their own reflection in the glass, waiting for something to stare back.

The stories about him lingered, Vox was well aware of that. And yet, despite them, people wanted his name gone. Silenced, forgotten as it was blamed for flickering lights and stalled elevators.

But you let him be.

A pixelated, razor-toothed grin creeps across the screen. He’ll remember that.